


Every Flight Begins With A Fall

by serpensortiia



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-13
Updated: 2013-05-05
Packaged: 2017-11-29 03:27:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 7
Words: 28,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/682195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/serpensortiia/pseuds/serpensortiia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sandor "The Hound" Clegane had grown fond of having Sansa Stark around the Red Keep. He paid regular visits to her chambers at night to keep her company after the death of her father. But after the Battle of Blackwater Bay, when he left the service of the Lannisters, he hid himself away to stay close to his little bird. Now he has to find a way to steal her in the night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Bird & The Hound

**Author's Note:**

> ~ This is my first fanfiction, but please be honest with me. If all goes well, I might just double post this story on fanfiction.net, though they seem less friendly towards mature rated content.  
> ~ I'm currently looking for any beta readers for further chapters. If you're interested, please send me a message.  
> ~ There is going to be sexual content including almost-rape further on in the story, but that won't be for a while. I will make a very large warning at the beginning of the chapter[s] and around the scene[s] for a warning.  
> ~ There will also be explicit language, but I'll try and keep it to a minimum/medium.  
> ~ I do not own any piece of ASOIAF/Game of Thrones. All works, characters, and details belong to George R.R. Martin and HBO.

Sandor had noticed her dead eyes once she had awoken from her faint. Sansa Stark, the once innocent girl that had first come to Kings Landing from the North was long gone, replaced by an empty shell held captive by the Lannisters with no family or friends in sight. He grimly remembered when that little shit who called himself King had decided it was best to show her her own father’s head on the spike sitting atop the Red Keep’s wall. When she had finally snapped, dropping her shield of courtesies and insulted Joffrey to his face, Ser Meryn (Sandor could hardly call him that without a snigger in his voice) was commanded to hit Sansa and Meryn was never one to hold back, woman or not. That slap hurt Sandor just as much. He had grown fond of the little bird with her sweet ways which were a nice change from the filth and lies normally found within the capitol.

  
As he stood passively by, keeping his fists clenched at his sides to stop from striking the king himself, he saw the glint in Sansa’s eyes as she saw just how far the fall was from their place at the top of the battlements. She took a single step forward and his instincts kicked in. Sandor grabbed her shoulders and whipped her around, quickly ripping a piece of cloth from his Kingsguard cloak as an excuse to have stopped her. He gently dabbed at her busted lip and handed her the cloth, claiming that she will need it later, knowing full well that this will not be the last time Joffrey or his Kingsguard will have Sansa Stark beaten. She quietly thanked him for his kindness, but her words are empty and her eyes don’t make it past the clasp of his cloak on his shoulders. _She can’t even bare to look at me_ , he thought sadly, but knew that her empty gazes were more than any other woman will spare him. _Besides, she is the kings betrothed. Best not get feelings for the little song bird._ He sulked away after Sansa as Meryn escorted her back to her room.

  
His rounds that evening seemed to take longer than normal as he could not get the thought of the sweet girl out of his head. Finally, as it neared the hour of the owl, Sandor dared venture towards her room knowing full well that the rest of the castle was either asleep or comfortably cradling a wine goblet or lover, or both. No one would dare disturb them, especially with his reputation as a ruthless killer. The wine in his belly didn’t hinder this bravery to go see the little bird.

  
Sandor could see her door just at the end of the hallway. He reached for the flask he kept on his hip during these night watches. A final swig flowed down his throat to strengthen his reserve. He rapped on the door three times before a diminutive handmaiden opened the door just so her eyes could peer out to question the nighttime intruder. Sandor could just make out the corner of her white linen nightgown and a faint glow of a candle near the back of the room, telling him that Sansa was still awake.

  
“What is it, ser?” she whispered, daring to let her entire head out to look down both sides of the hallway. Sandor wasn’t sure if she was looking to see if he brought other Kingsguard with him to harm the Lady Stark. She would find no one, friend nor foe.

  
“I’m no ser. I’ve come to check on Lady Stark. May I see her?” Thought he tried to keep his tone smooth and unwavering through his slight buzz, it came out as a severe gruff command more than a request. The handmaiden let out a small cry between her thin lips and rushed behind the door to admit him in. Sansa seemed just as surprised by his intrusion as Sandor did himself.

  
“Ser Clegane, to what may I owe the pleasure of your visit this evening?” she coolly asked. She was sitting up straight in her bed, a candle on her nightstand and a book in her lap. Her beautiful auburn hair cascaded down her shoulders, half of it burning red in the candlelight. The small cut on her left cheekbone was still red with the remnants of her blood. As he entered he noticed her discreet attempt to pull the covers further up her body to hide her improper dress. A lady’s nightgown barely covered what was proper for a man who was not her husband to see.

  
“I just wanted to make sure you were doing alright, Lady Stark. And I’m no ser. Clegane will do.” He growled, aware that Sansa Stark was near naked under those sheets and he just a few feet away. His eyes shifted to anything and everything but her form.

  
“Fine. Clegane. And I’m doing just fine, no thanks to you or your fellow Kingsguard. I’ll be alright.” Her tone came almost to a snarl.

  
Sandor could do nothing but sigh and run his hands over the mass of burnt flesh that was half his face and through thick black hair further back on his temple. He knew he was no handsome knight that she desired and he just about the last person in Westeros, quite possibly the world that she wanted to talk to right now. But out of all the people in Kings Landing, he was the only one who gave two shits about her well being.

  
“I want no part in what Joffrey commands.” He barked.

  
Sansa’s eyes found his, her brows furrowed as she scrutinized every part of him. His armor was well made steel but filthy from use, small cuts running up and down from swords swung true. The white cloak of the Kingsguard that hung from his shoulders was dirtied and she could find the small corner that was missing on the right side, her mind wandering to the small piece of cloth that was just underneath her palm inside the pages of her book of prayers. Sansa nodded for her handmaiden, who still stood shivering by the door to close it. Once done she beckoned the large beast of a man with the half burnt face towards her bedside, motioning towards the chair that sat at a small wooden table. Yet he continued to stand.

  
“What is it exactly you want, Clegane?”

  
“I just want-”

  
“To ransom me to the highest bidder? To rape me and take my maidenhead? What?” Her back was rigid against the headboard and her knuckles were white with her nails digging into the leather cover of her book.

  
“That’s not it at all! If you would just shut your mouth for one second, maybe-”

  
“Don’t you dare speak to me that way! I don’t care if you’re the Kingsguard or Tywin Lannister. I will not be made a fool of.” Sandor was not sure where this brave woman came from, but it floored him. He didn’t have a smartass retort that came so naturally to him. So he said the first true thought that came to mind.

  
“I want to help you, little bird.”

  
Sansa blinked. There was no way what was just said had come out of the Hound’s mouth. Surely this was a jape and Joffrey and Meryn wait patiently outside her door, ready for more penance for her or her family’s doings. But no one joined them for the castle was as quiet as the grave.

  
“You better not say a word of this meeting to anyone or I’ll have your handmaiden added to the spikes.” His threat was as empty as the flask on his hip. He knew it was to keep up the appearance of the Hound for the shivering girl in the corner and not the lady in front of him.

  
All cruelness that Sansa knew to be a part of the Hound’s nature was not present in this man who stood in front of her. This man, though he wore the same face, was not the man who slaughtered the butcher’s boy or dreamed of killing his brother. This man had kindness hidden somewhere behind those stormy grey eyes. A man who might be her greatest and only ally in an otherwise venomous pit from which she could not fly out of.

  
Sansa beckoned for her robe to cover herself up with. As it was brought to her, Sandor remembered a lady’s decency and turned his back while she gingerly stepped out of bed and wrapped herself in the woolen robe given to her by her lady mother. The smell of snow and smoke still lingered in its folds. Sansa deeply inhaled before tying the sides together and tiptoeing to placing a soft hand on Clegane’s shoulders. He merely turned his head over his shoulder and stared at her beauty for what seemed like ages. In dim candlelight she was magnificent and the shadows danced across her pale skin, showing off every curve of her figure and the dips of her collarbone.

  
Sansa Stark gave him a gentle nudge to turn him around so they were mere feet away from each other. Even with his height towering above her, she could still feel his warm breath hitting her cheeks. It reminded her too much of her father and Winterfell.

  
“Clegane, I don’t know what your true intentions are or if you have ulterior motives. But I assure you, I am no child that needs watching.” The tremor in her voice was hardly detectable as Sansa stared down the man she knew could kill her with one swift flick of his wrist.

  
“I know that, Lady Stark. I’ll leave you be. I’ll be back tomorrow.” And with that he turned on the heel of his boot and ripped the door open, the hinges creaking violently against the strain. There was no promise of what his next visit would bring, but Sansa knew it would be just like tonight’s. Just a lady with her handmaiden and Westeros’ second best warrior. And she could tell he would either be her salvation or her downfall.


	2. The Silent Protector

The dimly lit throne room was packed with people, all huddled around a center mass in the room. Pale cream walls hung with Lannister colored banners housed what seemed like hundreds of people, all murmuring as they stared at the red haired girl kneeling on the floor in front of the king. She was pleading with the king that she was not a part of her “traitor” brother’s plots and to have mercy. She had more luck asking for dancing lessons from Gregor Clegane than to ask mercy from King Joffrey. As the small blonde boy reached behind the iron throne, a large slab of metal forged from hundreds of swords that had been sworn to dead kings, quiet screams and gasps echoed throughout the hall. The boy clung to an ornate crossbow which made The Hound’s blood boil with silent rage. He gripped the pommel of his sword so tightly his knuckles turned white and old wounds stretched and cracked, leaking fresh blood into his gloves.

“You’re here to answer for your brother’s latest treason” Joffrey smirked, the tip of the arrow aimed straight between Sansa’s ocean blue eyes that were crashing waves down her cheeks. She gasped along with every other living soul in the room.

“Your Grace, whatever my traitor brother has done, I had no part of. You know that! I beg you, please-” she cried, but was interrupted by Joffrey’s cousin, Ser Lancel, a blonde boy of no more than ten and six years who bore a striking resemblance to Ser Jaime “the Kingslayer” Lannister, the Queen’s twin. Lancel babbled on about how her brother had used wolves to win the fight and then the men feasted on their enemies. She knew it was a complete load of lies, but that was the least of her problems as she stared down the golden tipped arrow meant for her.

“Killing you would send your brother a message…” her heart stopped, “But mother insists on keeping you alive.” Joffrey sighed as he lowered the crossbow and her heart resumed its beating. “Stand,” the King commanded and she did as she was told. There was still fire in his eyes which told her that her ordeal was far from over. “We’ll send your brother a message some other way. Meryn!” Sansa’s eyes flew to where the cruel knight stood, his teeth and eyes glittering in the faint light that shone through the stained glass window behind the iron throne. He quickly moved to stand in front of the Stark girl, teeth bared like a wolf who would surely eat her whole.

“Leave her face. I like her pretty.” Before Sansa could plead for more of the King’s mercy, the first blow came to her stomach which caused her to double over in a sort of pain she had never known. Her ribs felt as if they had just shattered into a thousand pieces of dragonglass and her lungs seized when she tried to take a breath. As Ser Meryn unsheathed his sword, the lords and ladies of court audibly gasped, the first time many of them had seen such violence, let alone at the hand of their king towards their future queen. Before she could cry out the sharp sting of the flat side of the blade slapped the back of her thighs and she screamed, dropping to the ground as her knees gave out. When her backside touched her thighs, she could already feel the welt that was forming and would grieve her for days. Seconds that felt like hours passed without another blow, and Sansa took this opportunity to face her betrothed, hands clasped in front of her.

“You know, my lady is over dressed. Unburden her.”

Sandor so far had watched with heart racing and teeth clenched, every ounce of reserve he had used to keep himself calm and still to stop himself from slaughtering the King and every Kingsguard and running to cradle the girl. But when Ser Meryn took the back of the little bird’s dressed and cleaved it in two, her hands racing to catch the baby blue cloth around her bosom, he looked away to try and save a shred of the girl’s honor. Just as he had preserved her honor that first night in her chamber, he would continue to honor her, even if everyone else in the room wouldn’t. She cried harder and clutched her torn dress to her body when Joffrey insinuated that the beating would continue, harder than before.

She had no more air in her lungs to cry, no more tears to shed for her cause. She was utterly alone, save for the man on the left hand of the King, his sworn shield who seemed to favor her to some degree and treated her with the most amount of kindness anyone in Kings Landing had shown her since the death of her father. It was to this man she looked for comfort and found only a shred in the deliberate dramatic drumming of his fingers on the pommel of his sword. The promise of pain to those who harmed her was enough to give her the strength to bow her head, her eyes shut to the sword being swung down towards her back.

“What is the meaning of this?” A sharp voice echoed from the back of the hall. The seas of people parted to reveal Tyrion Lannister, the Hand of the King and uncle to Joffrey. The room went deathly quiet as The Imp made his way to the front of the room, passing Sansa on the floor.

“What kind of knight beats an innocent girl?” he snarled at Meryn.

“One who does as his king commands!” Meryn snapped back, his droopy eyes snapping open at the insinuated insult. But his statement was met with a steely glance from Bronn, Tyrion’s sellsword, who playfully bantered with the wicked knight.

While Tyrion berated Joffrey for his lack of compassion towards his future bride, Sansa had lost focus as she realized she had somehow escaped the king’s wrath. Blood was beginning to seep through her dress where the sword has broken skin on her thighs and her ribs continued to ache with every breath she took. She was so exhausted that she barely heard when The Imp called for someone to cover her up. She expected that no one would be brave enough to risk the King’s anger, but at the sound of heavy footsteps, she raised her head and saw it was The Hound who took up the call, ripping the white cloak of the Kingsguard off his shoulders and draping it gently over her. Her slender fingers clutched at the material, inhaling the musk that emanated from deep in its folds. As her eyes searched his in a silent _thank you,_ she could see the pain and fury he was suffering that showed itself in the wrinkle of his brow and the twitching in his lips, most prominent in the corners on his burnt side. In the sparse light, he looked almost handsome. Shadows hid the red and purple pockmarks on his burnt skin and made him look whole and smooth while the light reflected in those deep grey eyes. He grinned at her and took up guard beside her, a silent protector over her shoulder.

When he was done embarrassing the boy King, Tyrion Lannister came and offered her a hand to help her to her feet. She took it and gently walked out of the throne room by his side, padding on the balls of her feet so as to not aggravate the welts on the back of her legs. Though she wished to look back at the blonde child and the dark man, better judgment told her to keep walking with her head high.

“I apologize for my nephew’s behavior. Tell me the truth. Do you want an end to this engagement?” Knowing that saying the wrong thing to the wrong person could get her killed, Sansa merely answered coldly that she was loyal to Joffrey, her true love. She swore she could hear a chuckle behind her as her handmaidens silently escorted her back to her room.

Inside the throne room, the chatter had grown to a loud buzz, one that did not fade to mere noise in your ears. The king stood blushing in humiliation while his uncle returned to continued to tell him off for his cruelty and lack of honor. Sandor tried to keep his thoughts on his last battle, the blood he had shed from boys as young as Joffrey. It gave him some small satisfaction that would tide him over until he could go check on the Lady Stark himself later that evening. Until then, he continued to follow the king around to serve as his protection, keeping his mind of what it would feel like to have Joffrey’s small neck beneath his own large fingers and feel the gratifying crunch of his neck snapping. When the cruel bastard finally released him for the day, Sandor went to his room to drink himself in a stupor that would at keep him occupied until nightfall.

Back in her chambers, Sansa lay face down on her bed biting into her pillow as two handmaidens covered her bruises and contusions in a special salve that Grandmaester Pycelle had brought up shortly after her return to her chamber. He must have known what King Joffrey was going to do before he did it. Pycelle was too old to act that quick.

While the girls tended to her, Sansa began to think out loud. “Do you think our children will be this cruel?” She whispered, almost as if to herself. Her eyes found those of her newer handmaiden, a dark haired Lorathi girl named Shae who only shrugged.

“I don’t know, my lady. The rest of the Lannisters don’t seem so mean. Look at Prince Tommen.” Her smooth fingers brushed a strand of hair away from Sansa’s eyes as she stood to return the salve to the bedside table. Sansa began to yawn and her handmaidens started to gently tuck their lady into bed. “You need to rest, my lady. Things will get better.” She wasn’t sure if the girl spoke of her wounds or of her predicament, but both sufficiently calmed her as she laid her head upon her pillow and quickly fell asleep.

A small knock on her door awoke her long after the moon had risen and the birds outside her window had settled in their nests. Sansa rubbed her eyes, not sure if she had heard correctly when nothing stirred. Another set of knocks. When she couldn’t muster a sound from her lips after a day’s worth of crying and screaming, the door opened just a touch and a few gloved fingers peeked through the crack.

“Lady Stark?” a rough voice reverberated through the wood and into her body. Though her legs and back were stiff and a severe pain throbbed deep in her belly, she swiftly pushed herself up in bed, smoothing the sheets around her waist. The door continued to gently open until the scarred face of Sandor Clegane could be seen. There were no smiles for her tonight, only a furrowed brow, a staggering gait and the stench of alcohol.

She coughed trying to regain her voice and was able to rasp out a barely audible “Please come in.” She was still clothed in the soft summer dress Shae had helped her into when they first returned to her chambers so she deemed herself presentable for Lord Clegane. One dainty foot after another slid out from beneath the covers and landed squarely inside her slippers. She strode towards the colossal figure that darkened her doorway with as much courage and honor as she could muster, knowing that he had seen her public humiliation. Though he reeked and frightened her with his unwavering stance, she meekly grabbed his hand and led him inside. He blinked and looked down at the small pale hand that held on to his tanned monstrous one. Just the girl’s touch sent away some of his haze and used his unoccupied hand closed the door behind them.

“Please, sit my lord.” She offered him the chair yet again as she did every night since that first night when Sandor Clegane had visited her chambers. Luckily for her he never took advantage of her or dishonored her in any way. Though the door was always closed, they spent their nights talking, usually courtly gossip or hopes and dreams. Or rather, Sansa did all the talking and Sandor just sat and listened. It was one of the few things he was particularly good at. She had grown to trust this large man and he had become the only other confidant she had other than Shae. She would at times ponder if he may even see her as a friend as she saw him.

“I’ve told you before, little bird, do not call me lord. That’s my _brother_.” He spat the last word out as though it was poison, and it may have well been for the _love_ that Sandor bore his brother Gregor. But this statement only made the girl giggle lightly. Instead he stood facing her as she sat down on the edge of her bed, a softer spot than the wooden chair and much more forgiving to her injuries.

“Please, come sit beside me.” She tried to phrase it more as a request but to The Hound, it was a command which he gladly obeyed. His weight pushing down on the mattress raised the girl a few inches so she was almost face to face with him, his good side facing her. “Would you like me to sing you a song?”

It was an odd question. Music did not interest him in the least. It was only good for men with no skill on the battlefield and ladies with their heads stuck in the clouds. But the chance to hear the little song bird sing was far too tempting to pass up. Perhaps it was her way of coping with tragedy as he could vaguely remember a sweet voice filling the Red Keep the night her father was beheaded.

“I would be honored, my lady.” He bowed his head towards her. When he lifted his head, she was staring at him. _It’s probably my damn face scaring her away._ He thought grimly. It was the source of most of his problems and could no doubt be used as an excuse for a woman staring. But she surprised him when she lifted a gently hand to caress the worst side of his face. Though he could not feel it, he knew that her skin would be as soft as silk and he could just smell the scent of lavender and oranges on her wrist. He closed his eyes and inhaled, trying to sear this memory forever in his mind, should the bird finally come to her senses and forbid him from her company. When he opened them again, she was just starting to take a deep breath as she parted her full lips to sing.

“ _Gentle mother, font of mercy, save our sons from war, we pray…”_ Sansa had chosen to sing a hymn dedicated to The Mother, the epitome of kindness and love. Sandor wasn’t sure what he was expecting from her, maybe some song about a handsome knight winning a princess, but not a song invoked to ease suffering. Though in retrospect it seemed fitting for her situation.

When she had finished, Sandor boldly reached for her hands, engulfing them between his own. His stern look must have startled the girl, because she seemed to shy away from his touch for just a moment before she regained her composure.

“You won’t hurt me.” She stated, whether to herself or to him, he wasn’t sure.

“No little bird, I won’t hurt you.”

With that Sandor stood up and swiftly walked out the door, as quiet as a shadowcat. It took Sansa a few moments to recover, and she gazed down at her hands as if they had been touched by The Warrior himself. She brought them to her cheeks to feel the remaining warmth and sighed, a content sound she hadn’t made in months, not since Joffrey had given her a golden lion necklace. She went to bed dreaming not of Ser Loras or Lord Renly, but of the burnt man who held her hands so gently.


	3. I Did It For Her

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING! There is an ATTEMPTED RAPE scene further in the chapter as well as some VIOLENCE. If either make you uncomfortable, I've marked the chapters with asterisks so that you can avoid it. You will not lose any content and you can continue reading.

It was her first time at the docks near the Red Keep. The day was warm and breezy with just a few clouds floating above and the salt spray of the ocean biting Sansa’s cheeks. She wished she could kick off her shoes and feel the warm sand beneath her toes, just one feeling of freedom in her miserable caged life. The rose colored cloth that draped her body was growing warm and her dark auburn hair was sucking the sun’s rays towards her face where she was beginning to perspire. She said not a word to King Joffrey who stood a few steps in front of her, watching as his sister, Princess Myrcella, was shipped off to Dorne to either keep her safe or to broker an alliance with House Martell. Sansa couldn’t be sure from all the rumors floating around court. The High Septon was saying words of prayer for the Princess’ safety but Sansa barely heard them. She was focusing on the open sea and wished that she was the one being shipped off to Dorne rather than stay with the Lannisters. Incense from the Septon’s burner filled her nostrils as she inhaled deeply, reveling in this one peaceful moment the world had allowed her to have. She was vaguely aware of Sandor’s presence behind her, standing closer to her than should be proper but the lack of space on the rocky beach called for closer quarters. She was grateful that he was there should anything happen. It gave her a reason for a small smile to creep into the corners of her lips.

The boat that took Myrcella away was growing smaller and smaller and she was vaguely aware of words being exchanged between the Queen and her brother the Imp. As she turned her head to listen, she was distracted by Prince Tommen, a tiny thing with a gentle heart, weeping into his septa’s skirts. Joffrey seemed to have noticed as well.

“He sounds like a kitten mewling for his mother.” He scoffed, arms crossed and his nose scrunching. “Princes don’t cry.”

Sansa stared at him incredulously and under her breath said, “I saw you cry.” Sandor chuckled behind her.

Joffrey heard. “Did you say something, my lady?” His arms came down and she quickly thought of a lie.

“My little brother cried when I left Winterfell.” It was the truth. Rickon was only five when she left and he didn’t understand why half of his family was leaving him. At the time she didn’t cherish family like Rickon did. She was happy to have left her home and now she regretted that decision more than ever.

“So?” Joffrey asked, seemingly tired of Sansa’s existence.

“It seems a normal thing.” She bantered back.

“Is your little brother a prince?”

 _Yes_ , she wanted to say, _now that my brother is King of the North_. But that would’ve meant another severe beating. “No.”

“Not really relevant, then, is it?” Sansa wanted to slap that arrogant look off his face. He turned on his heel and began to walk back towards the city walls. Ser Meryn followed, giving the girl a hateful look. “Come, dog.” The Hound’s breath hitched in his chest. Once Joffrey and Meryn were up the stairs, Sandor raised his lips in a growl at the King before dragging his feet to follow.

 _Fucking little prick_ , he thought, following close behind. He had heard everything between the two and was shocked that the girl dared speak to him that way with Meryn so close. But the proximity of the Queen and the rest of court was likely what kept the boy king in check.

Once back inside the walls of King’s Landing, crowds of peasants had gathered with a small path leading back to the Keep cleared for the royal procession. Grumbles could be heard, but whether from their mouths or their stomachs he wasn’t sure. The majority of them looked like skin stretched across bones with hollowed eyes for how starved they were. He had heard that the war was causing the largest food shortage Westeros had ever known. Most of the farms belonged to the Riverlands which had taken side with the Stark boy, and the Tyrell’s were siding with Renly Baratheon, meaning the farms in the Reach were also out. This meant less food for the people of King’s Landing, and far less than there should be since the nobility took more than fifty percent. This was obvious in the fat the septon carried on his belly.

As the procession snaked through the city, jeers and shouts could be heard, insults hurled from every which way. Sandor was acutely aware of the tension rising in the crowd. He glanced back to see that the little bird and her handmaidens were only a few steps behind him with the Kingsguard surrounding them. This was not ideal, he would rather be guarding her personally, but with five soldiers around her, he felt she would be safe enough.

Suddenly, a woman busted through the guards and planted herself in front of Joffrey. The King tried to back away and have the guards remove her but Sansa, the sweet little thing that she is, ran forward to hear the woman. In her arms was a dead baby, skinny and pale and covered in flies. Through heavy breaths and missing teeth the woman explained that the child died from lack of food, as they all were. Why wasn’t the king feeding his people when he feasted in the Red Keep? Sansa whispered something to Joffrey who jeered at the girl but pulled a silver coin out of his pocket and threw it at the woman. The coin bounced off the dead baby and rolled into the crowd who began to fight over it. The woman screamed _bastard_ at the King then turned her attention to the fair-haired Queen a few paces back. _Brother-fucker_ , she called her. The Queen lost all color in her face and Joffrey grew flustered with rage. But soon the whole crowd was shouting _bastard_ and _brother-fucker_ and even a few choice words for Sansa herself. Ser Meryn tried to yell over the throng to keep moving, but the entire host of nobility was scared and shrinking towards one another. As Joffrey was screaming towards the Kingsguard, a cow pie flew from somewhere up in a window and slapped him across the face. As soon as it hit him, swords were drawn and questions flew out of every soldier’s mouth. The boy was livid.

****“I want the man who threw that! Find that man and bring him to me!” Joffrey screeched, spears and swords already sticking through bellies. Sandor kept his hand on Joffrey’s shoulder to steer him away from the edges. Men were started to beat down on those in armor, grabbing rocks and slamming them into helms. “Just kill them! Kill them all!” Though the soldiers were heavily armed, they were severely outnumbered and the commoners attacked.  Sandor roughly grabbed the boy by the scruff of his neck with one hand, sword in the other and started to drag the king through the streets towards the Red Keep. The Kingsguard was forging a path through the chaos leaving a trail of dead peasants, dismembered limbs and a few knights scattered in their path.

“What are you doing? I want these people executed!”

*****“They want the same for you!” Sandor snarled back at him, barreling through the mob, his sword swinging towards the crowd, catching a boy on his cheek. The four other guards in front of him were making good work of the walking meat bags in front. Behind him, over the yells and panicked screaming of women was the bloodcurdling crying of the High Septon being torn to pieces by the commoners. They would eat tonight. He passed off the King to Ser Boros Blount, a member of the Kingsguard and turned to find Sansa but was greeted by three men all charging at him. He quickly beheaded the first, gutted the second then cleaved the third in two, barely exerting any energy. He searched and headed back to the gate, assuming that she had already been lead to safety.

Meanwhile Sansa was running frantically through the crowd, trying to find her way to the gate that meant safety. Her dress was ripping and catching on her shoes and her hair was dangling in her face, sticking to her sweat covered brow as tears streamed down her face. The Kingsguard had abandoned her once the fighting broke out to protect the King and Queen Regent. She was on her own. There was a large sandstone wall to her right and she decided that it was her best chance of getting through the fray. All she would have to do was follow it until she found the gate then she’d be safe. Around her she saw men dying with their flesh being ripped from their bodies to serve as food to the starving commoners. Bile rose in her throat and she heaved onto a man who lay coughing blood at her feet. She wiped her mouth with the back of her sleeve, searching the horde for guards or anyone she recognized who could save her. She had lost her handmaidens a while ago and shuddered to think what was being done to them now. With her fingers trailing the warm stone of the wall, she ran, her chest burning for air. When she looked up, a man stepped in front of her, hate smoldering in his eyes. She cried out and turned, more men surrounding her on every side. A sob choked her and she whipped her head to the side, seeing a small opening in the wall and ran, her feet carrying her as fast as she could. Ladies did not run.

Once inside the gate, Sandor looked around. Women were weeping, the Queen was rocking Prince Tommen in her arms and the Imp was having a row with his nephew, who sat there screaming about the traitors on the other side of that gate.

 “We’ve had vicious kings and we’ve had idiot kings, but I don’t know if we’ve ever been cursed with a vicious idiot boy king.” Tyrion waved his hands around for emphasis, completely undone by the starved common folk outside. Cersei and he had tried to warn the boy king about the food shortages, but the boy did not seem to care and now the problem had literally hit him in the face.

“You-you can’t! You are talking to a king!” Tyrions hand flew and slapped the king right where the remnants of cow shit still clung to the boy’s face. For such a small man he had mighty strength in his arm.

“And now I’ve struck a king! Did my hand fall from my wrist?” He walked away, knowing full well his nephew was not stupid enough to demand his head. The Imp looked to the Hound and around the small hallway before questioning the nearest guard. “Where’s the Stark girl?”

****“Let them have her!” That gave Sandor his answer. Now he knew that Sansa wasn’t inside the gate curled into a corner somewhere hidden behind the skirts of her handmaidens. She was out there with the crowd who demanded blood and would find it in the young Stark girl. Before Joffrey could give him a command, he flung the gate door open, nearly pulling it from its hinges and stormed off into the crowd, hacking any man who came within ten feet of him into pieces. In his rage he even managed to cut down two women and a small boy crying for its mother. Perhaps this was better for them instead of the rape and slow death they were sure to suffer at the hands of these deranged and starved men.

****As his sword sprayed blood around him, he paused to stare as three men darted down an alleyway. On instinct alone he followed them. No man would run from this sort of fight, especially with others trailing after him. They were hunting something and he had a sickening feeling deep in his gut at what that thing was. As he neared the entrance he could hear Sansa crying and screaming and then a sharp smack, tiny at first, and then one louder that came at the hands of a man on a woman’s flesh. Sandor’s blood boiled and he brusquely strode into the room where three men had the girl pinned down and another one on top of her pulling his cock out of his pants and asking her if she had ever been fucked. The lady’s clothes were ripped exposing her feminine parts and one breast hung out of her tightly laced smallclothes. Sandor barely had time to blush before he took the man on top by the throat and gutted him, the man’s entrails piling onto the floor. As a child would a rag doll, the Hound tossed the man aside before slicing the back of the second man who barely had time to let go of Sansa’s leg. The third, a pale man with grey stubble on his chin had the audacity to try and run past Sandor. It didn’t take much to put his arm in the way and slide his blade across the man’s throat. He slid the body off his armor and sheathed his sword before staring down at the pale girl on the floor. She quickly tried to cover herself up, stifling a sob. On her forehead was a nasty gash he could only imagine was inflicted by the loud crack of a man’s hand he had heard earlier.

“It’s alright now, little bird.” Sandor’s hand gently grabbed hers as he lifted her to her feet. He gave her the chance to brush herself off before he picked her up and threw her over his shoulder. The close proximity of her rear end to his face did not go unnoticed but this was neither the time nor the place. Outside the little alcove and back into the skirmish were the sights and sounds of women being raped and men killing and being killed. The stench of sweat, sex and blood hung heavy in the air. It was sure to penetrate the sweetly scented halls of the Red Keep before nightfall. The gods would not want the nobility to forget their sins. The Hound barely had to fight his way back to the gate. Most of the men were too busy in their conquests to take notice of the man with what they deemed his own prize heading back to the gate.

Once inside, Sandor found a clear spot on the floor to sit her down. Tyrion was immediately upon them as well as two handmaidens who had made it out of the crowd alive and well.

“Are you hurt, my lady?” The Imp fretted, looking between the Hound and the bird, waiting for an explanation that would never come.

“The little bird is bleeding. Someone take her back to her cage. See to that cut.” The Hound choked out, trying his damndest not to let his emotions for the girl show in front of the lions and their pets. The two handmaidens gently brought the bird to her feet and escorted her back to her chambers. With one last look back towards her savior, Sansa limped across the courtyard into the stairwell and disappeared.

“Well done, Clegane.” Tyrion stated, keeping a few steps between them. He eyed the man warily, one of the few who still feared the Clegane brothers despite their service to his family.

The Hound took a few steps towards then stopped in his tracks at the Imp’s words. As nonchalantly as he could, he turned his head over his shoulder.

“I didn’t do it for you.”

They all later found out that two members of the Kingsguard had died in the battle as well as nine members of the City Watch and forty others were wounded. Lollys Stokeworth, daughter of Lady Tanda Stokeworth, was raped by countless men and found naked and wandering by the City Watch after the crowds had cleared. Tyrek Lannister, Tyrion’s cousin, had gone missing and no one could find his body. And they had all seen or heard the High Septon getting torn to pieces. Tyrion said that _starving men take a dim view of priests too fat to walk_. No one bothered to count up the dead peasants. Joffrey’s ego wouldn’t allow it.

Sansa spent the rest of the day holed up in her chambers curled up on her bed. She had dismissed her handmaidens long ago once they had reached her room. She needed to be alone for a while. Whenever she closed her eyes, she could still see the hate in their eyes as the men held her down; she could smell the stench of blood and sweat that dripped off of them. Their grimy hands had left bruises on her wrists and ankles. No matter how much powder or perfume she used, their smell still lingered on her long after she’d stripped of her tattered dress and bathed in scalding hot water to wash away the filth.

Sandor spent his time much the same, sitting on a wooden chair cradling a bottle of wine in the nook of his arm, empty flasks and jugs scattered across the floor, some broken and smashed against walls. It was killing him to not go see her immediately, to make sure she was ok, she wasn’t deflowered, that he hadn’t gotten there too late. But with the guards roaming and the palace abuzz from the commotion, it was better he stay out of sight and out of mind. He sent his squire, a boy of no more than ten and two years whose name he never cared to remember, out to fetch one of her handmaidens. It had been the foreign girl, a dark haired beauty named Shae who came to him, smart mouthed and hot tempered. He took her by the neck and slammed her against the wall, demanding to know why Lady Stark had been abandoned to fend for herself. Coolly and with a hint of disdain, the girl informed him that she had stayed behind in the castle to clean the Lady’s chambers.

“The others four had gone with her and only two returned. It’s the guards you should be questioning, not me.” She answered, silently drawing a thin knife from her calf and placing against his throat. Unfazed, he dropped the girl and walked back to his table, fisting the flask and gulping its entirety in two swigs. He dismissed the girl and sat back in his chair.

The sun crawled along the sky in a sickeningly slow pace. The birds continued to sing their songs and workers in the courtyard seemed unaware that today was not a day of peace and beauty. It was hours before the moon showed its face to the sky and a few more before he dared step foot outside his chamber to seek out the company of Lady Stark.

He met Ser Boros in the hallway containing Lady Sansa who seemed to be keeping guard.

“What are you doing in this part of the castle? Looking to take the girl for yourself, Clegane?” The man japed, slapping him on the shoulder as he let out a raucous laugh. Sandor forced a smirk to his lips.

“No, I’m here to relieve you. Go get some sleep.” He lied, gently pushing the man from his spot and taking his place next to Sansa’s door. Boros looked at him questioningly but shrugged it off, thanking him as he hauled his feet down the stairs at the end of the corridor.

He let a few minutes pass before gently knocking on the door. A small voice called from inside and he pushed the door open. Only one candle lit the room, sending shadows into corners but shining radiantly off of her red hair. He truly smiled at her beauty. She was sitting in a padded chair in the corner with her prayer book between her hands. As she did every visit, she invited him to sit across from her. For once, he obliged her and plopped down, the wood groaning beneath his weight.

“Are you alright, little bird?” He asked, concern marking his brow. The cut on her forehead was still raw and fresh, bloody bandages littering her nightstand. She sighed in response, biting her lip as tears welled in her eyes. She flew out of her chair and straight at him, her arms wrapping around his neck tightly. It took him by surprise and at first, he merely gawked at her, his arms splayed to the side, unsure how to react. But as she wept into his shoulder, he held her, one arm around her lower back, the other on her shoulder, rubbing it gently.

They sat like that for what seemed like hours. Eventually her tears subsided and she meekly sat on the edge of his knee but she still clung to him like a hurt child to its parent. He leaned in and sniffed, smelling lilacs and lemons in her hair. _This is what the heaven must smell like_ , he thought, taking one hand and running it through her auburn tresses.

After a while, she sat back, his hands still placed around her back, and stared into his eyes without speaking. He dared not break her stare and lost himself in her blue eyes. She blinked and looked down at her hands which were now clasped in her lap and fiddled with her thumbs. Something was troubling her.

“What is it, little bird?” he reached down and took both her hands in one of his, rubbing his thumb over the back of her right hand.

“He hated me, the man who hit me. I saw it in his eyes – hated me." Sansa could still see the hollow black eyes of him. "He never met me before, but he wanted to hurt me." Her eyes met his once again, darting back and forth between his good side and his burnt side. “Why? Why would a stranger-?”

“You are everything he will never have. Your horse eats better than his children." Sandor held her cheeks between his hands, forcing her to stare straight at him. She needed to understand the ways of the world. Not everything was a song filled with gallant knights and beautiful maidens. There were people who would always want to hurt her, kill her, who would envy her just because she was born into the right house and they weren’t. "It doesn't matter now. He's dead.”

Sansa had a hard time processing this thought. Ever since she was a small girl, life at Winterfell had played out exactly like a song. Her mother and father loved each other and their children very much. Knights, some handsome and some not, married women whom they loved and had children of their own. Her brothers were becoming strong men who would fight battles and win glory and she was to become the perfect image of what a lady should be, elegant, refined, courteous… And even though she was still all these things, living in the capitol had taught her that most of the world did not adhere to these songs. The new king had killed her father, her mother and eldest brother were fighting a war against her captor, her sister assumed dead, and her youngest brothers alone in Winterfell. This was not how the songs went.

She buried her head once again into his neck, breathing in the smell of men; sweat, leather, blood, horses, and wine. It was not a sweet smell like her perfumes but it was comforting. It reminded her of her father.

“Lady Stark, you should get some rest.” He gently nudged her so she broke from her lull against him and stood, blushing at their contact. In her moment of weakness she had done something quite improper but she could hardly find room to blame herself.

“Thank you, Sandor.” His eyes went wide as he stared at her. This was the first time she dared call him by his given name. The last person to call him that had been his sweet sister before she disappeared. She leaned over and kissed him on his good cheek before turning and sitting back in her chair. It took him a few seconds to calm his racing heart before getting up and heading to the door.

“Clegane?” She called meekly, clutching the book to her chest. He turned on a dime to face her.

“Yes, my lady?”

“Could you… could you keep watch? Just in case?” Her eyes betrayed her fear at the men returning for her though they were long dead and most likely sitting in the bellies of dogs and crows. Though it was a silly fear, he indulged her, a smile crackling through his burnt cheek.

“Of course, my lady.” She smiled at him before settling down in her chair and humming to herself. He closed the door behind him and laughed a coarse laugh. It seems the little bird was more scared of rats than dogs.

He spent the entire night standing beside her door and long after the sun rose over the horizon. Throughout the night, he could hear small cries muffled by a pillow and every time, he would crack the door open to make sure she was unhurt. When light began to pierce the darkened sky, he heard a louder scream. His foot pushed the door open while his hands went to his sword. She was tossing and turning in her sleep, the sheets tangled around her legs and her hair cascading over the edge of her bed. His shoulders relaxed and he let go of the hilt, instead walking over to her and rubbing her back. This soothed her enough that she quieted. Tears were running down her face and he wiped them gently away with his thumb before pulling the sheets back over her body. When the foreign maid came, she found him leaning against the wall, his eyes drooping but remained vigilant. She glared at him and told him he could leave, that the king would want him back. As he left, he mumbled under his breath, “I didn’t do it for him.”


	4. No Little Bird, I Won't Hurt You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry it took this long to get this chapter out! After midterms I just ended up getting really lazy and I apologize. But if you look at the length of this thing, it's kind of amazing to know I did this in under 24 hours. I really hope you all enjoy and I'll start work on the next chapter tonight so it'll be out before next weekend to make it up to you all for being so patient with me. Next time I take this long, feel free to pelt me with insulting messages to get my butt in gear! Enjoy!

She could still remember his cold grey eyes as they bore into hers. She had just wanted to thank him for saving her life. Every night she would have nightmares of those men and their grimy hands ripping her dress off, the way the one had hated her so much she could feel it when he hit her. The nightmares persisted and she thought that maybe thanking her savior might cure her. But it didn’t make much of a difference.

She had let him pass her in the hall before working up the courage to open her mouth and let the words spill out as if they had been kept inside too long. “Beg pardon, ser. I should have come to you after to thank you for saving me. You were so brave.” She said in a meek voice, her knees shaking. His look was not as warm as she had known it to be.

“Brave? A dog doesn’t need courage to chase off rats.” The words seem to fly out of his thin lips and slap her on the face. Her legs felt fragile as if she would drop at any second, but a lady does not falter at the sight of knights and lords so she held her head as high as she could.

 _Does it give you joy to scare me?_ She wanted to ask, but did not want to seem frail in front of him. “Does it give you joy to scare people?”

“No, it gives me joy to kill people. Spare me, you can't tell me Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell never killed a man.”

“It was his duty, he never liked it!” She barked back, disgusted that he would speak so ill of her late father. Why was he being so mean? Did he hate her now too?

“Is that what he told you? He lied. Killing's the sweetest thing there is.” The insult cut deeper than swords. Sansa reeled back at his words, looking him over to wonder if this was the same man who had been so kind to her every night since her father went to join the Old Gods.

“Why are you always so hateful?” The second the words left her she regretted them. He was not always hateful, yet his attitude left her longing for the softer man who visited her nightly, who held her when she cried. She wanted her friend back.

His eyes met her as he delivered the truth she needed to hear. “You'll be glad of the hateful things I do someday when you're queen and I'm all that stands between you and your _beloved_ king.” The realization hit her as his venom leaked into his words; this was not Sandor standing in front of her, but the Hound. She did not have enough fight in her after countless sleepless nights and sadly took her leave of him. Behind her, the Hound stared longingly after her, cursing himself for letting her go.

The nightmares came back with a vengeance after the Hound had dismissed her so coldly. In them he did not save her. She would wake just as the man who slapped her began to remove his trousers, usually in a cold sweat. But not this night.

As usual the men chased her into the alleyway and pinned her down, slapping her and ripping her dress apart. But instead of releasing himself from his trousers, the man atop her pulled a dagger from a sheath on his belt, glared hard into her eyes and as she screamed, the blade came down into her chest.

Sansa awoke with a start, tears dripping down her face and neck and into her hair which pooled on her shoulders. Her lungs could not inhale enough air and she clutched at her throat. Once her heart settled, she felt a warm wetness between her thighs. Fearing that she had relieved herself in her sleep, she pulled the sheets back, then her nightgown, only to find a pool of blood staining her pale thighs. Again air was not enough to calm her lungs, and she let out a terrified sigh.

“No… oh no!” Jumping from the bed, only to see that the sheets beneath her were stained as well, she hurriedly grabbed a knife from the nearby table and stabbed at the sheets, willing the stain to disappear like a bad dream. If anyone found out that she had her moonblood, she was now able to wed Joffrey and bear his children. Bile rose in her throat at the idea of bedding the monster that had once so enraptured her. Her fingers ripped at the sheets and she whimpered when she saw the stain reached the mattress underneath. She could not cut it out. The door’s creaking alerted her to someone’s presence, but she could not see through the veil of tears. Not a word had to be spoken for Shae to understand the situation.

“It’s alright. Give me that.” Shae’s warm fingers took the knife out of Sansa’s trembling hands and laid it on the bedside table before holding the noble girl’s shoulders.

“If the Queen sees… I can have Joffrey’s children now!” Panic thickly laced her voice. Tears were streaming down her face and choking her voice. She didn’t know what to do anymore. Shae looked between Sansa and the bed then seemed to have an idea.

“Help me flip it over.” She worked quickly, grabbing one side of the bloody mattress while Sansa held the other. Before they could complete their task, the mattress bent halfway, one of the Queen’s handmaidens walked in, giving a quick glance to both noble and maid, and turned on her heel to report back to Cersei. Shae ran off after the maid, leaving Sansa standing next to her bed in a daze. Part of her wished that the girl would not be harmed, she was merely doing her duty, but the fear inside her screamed for her to die so no one would know her secret. Her legs finally gave out from under her and she collapsed on the trunk at the foot of her bed. The sound of her sobbing alerted Sandor as he passed by the door and he rushed in, fearing the child’s safety.

“Is everything alright, my lady?” The gruff voice pulled her from her stupor. Sandor Clegane stood in the doorway, eyes fixed on the damning evidence painting her nightgown and mattress. A choke escaped Sansa’s lips but nothing more. She had run out of ideas but not of tears, which began flowing down her cheeks. This is how Shae found them when she returned.

The resulting talk with Queen Cersei was not nearly as bad as Sansa had predicted. As usual the Queen was courteous and smiled a lot. But after sharing tales of her own past births, there was something that caught Sansa off guard, something she thought she would never hear anyone say, least of all the Queen.

Her Grace had sat opposite Sansa at the table, a plate of fruits between them. The morning’s events had scared her appetite away and the sight of food made her sick. When the Queen spoke, her voice was like honey, thick and sweet but suffocating.

“Permit me to share some womanly wisdom with you on this very special day. The more people you love the weaker you are. You'll do things for them that you know you shouldn't do. You'll act the fool to make them happy, to keep them safe. Love no one but your children. On that front a mother has no choice.”

 “But shouldn’t I love Joffrey, Your Grace?” Sansa questioned. Cersei’s advice shocked her. For all her worth she tried to be the courteous lady and no matter her feelings, feigned love for the King.

The pity emanated from Cersei like shadows. “You can try, little dove.”

The next few days passed in a frantic blur. Stannis’ ships were expected to arrive by nightfall and Sansa had hardly seen Sandor since the start of her moonblood. There had been talk of battle plans, of where the noble ladies and their children would go, and one word had stuck out that Sansa did not understand: dragonfire. Luckily Joffrey had not called for her, whether it was due to the battle plans or because he viewed her now as “unclean”, she neither cared nor questioned it.

            As night drew closer, the Queen called for all the noble women to join her in Maegor’s Holdfast, the safest place in the Red Keep. At least from Stannis’ army. Sansa’s other handmaidens had fled back to their families, all but Shae. Together they packed a few of Sansa’s belongings in a small satchel; her hairbrush, spare sets of smallclothes, her prayer book, and the stained and tattered handkerchief that Sandor had used to wipe away the blood from her lip the day Joffrey had her father beheaded. This she hid at the bottom of the bag in the cover of her prayer book. It was her own silent prayer that he would make it out of this battle alive and she would find him at her chamber door once again, smiling at her. She placed the bag inside the trunk at the foot of her bed for safekeeping, should she need it later.

            While squires and stable hands rushed through tight alleyways running last minute errands for their masters, Sandor found himself mindlessly wandering towards the tavern where he could hear that damned Lannister drinking song, _The Rains of Castamere_. Inside he found Tyrion’s sellsword Bronn holding tightly to a naked whore, the rest of the men fondling their own scantily clad women. The room hushed as he and his squire took a table in a far corner that the previous inhabitants so willingly gave up for The Hound and his squire, a silent boy large for his age. Sandor was quite fond of him. He did as he was told, said nothing, and drank plenty. Bronn however didn’t know to keep his mouth shut.

            “This round’s on me.” Sandor ignored him. He wanted to drink in silence, lest this be the last drink he ever had. The sellsword muttered something to the whore on his lap and stared at him. Sandor stared back, waiting for the man to break as most men did but the tension just continued to rise.

            “You think you’re a hard man?” Clegane slammed his flagon on the table. His blood was boiling for war and he couldn’t wait to spill a man’s blood, anything to make him forget how he had pushed away the little bird. He had not seen her smile in many nights and it was wearing on his patience.

            “Oh I know it.” Laughter burst across the room at Bronn’s arrogance. “It's warm in here. We've got beautiful women and good brown ale. Plenty for everyone. And all you want is to put one of us in the cold ground with no women to keep us company.”

            “Oh there’s women in the ground. I put some there myself. So have you. You like fucking and drinking and singing. But killing, killing’s the thing you love. You're just like me,” Clegane stood, revealing his full height, his body covered in expensive armor that was stained with blood and dirt and sweat. “Only smaller.”

            “And quicker, eh?” The sellsword smirked, looking around him at the men who smiled at his jokes but lost their courage when the Hound cast his eyes over the lot of them.

            Clegane was getting tired of these games. He wasn’t one for words and insults. Swords and death were what he dealt in and this game could only go on for so long. Either they fought it out as men and killers or the man could shut his mouth and let him drink in peace. Clegane knew it was going to be the first. “Your lord Imp’s going to miss you.”

            Bronn patted the whore’s ass as he stood, showing that the Hound towered a good foot or more above himself, but he was indeed smaller and most likely quicker in his leather jerkin. His hand reached behind his back and stayed there, most likely grasping some sort of knife he kept handy. “Aye. I expect he will one day.” With challenge excepted, both men waited for the other to make the first move. Large, armored, and skilled with a longsword versus small, unburdened, and quick: this would be the fight at the Eyrie all over again for Bronn, but his opponent would put up a far more difficult fight since he had nothing to lose. Then the bells rang signaling the oncoming storm. Bronn’s fist loosened against the shaft of his knife. “One more drink before the war? Shall we?”

            Inside the Throne Room, Sansa and Shae wandered aimlessly while soldiers and nobles alike ran around like frightened hens. The frantic chaos was somewhat calming to Sansa. It was a different atmosphere from the past few days and here, no one seemed to even notice her. The large torches surrounding the pillars in the hall kept the cool night air at bay and danced off of Sansa’s pale skin and fiery hair. As she stopped to admire the beauty in the flames, Lord Tyrion waddled up beside her, extending his courtesies.

            “Lady Sansa. And Sheila?” He tried addressing the handmaiden. “Shae,” was the retort. “Surely my sister has asked you to join the other highborn ladies in Maegor’s Holdfast?” The Imp seemed to be sweating already clad in his golden armor that seemed too heavy for such a stunted figure. Across the hall Joffrey was yelling for her.

            “She has, my lord. But King Joffrey has asked me to see him off.” He shouted her name again, beckoning her. As she strode towards the King, she quickly turned on her heels to deliver a final courtesy before leaving the Lannister behind. “I will pray for your safe return, my lord.”

            Tyrion seemed confused at this. The girl was not cruel yet she obviously bore no love for her Lannister captors. “Will you?”

            “Just as I pray for the King’s.” Sansa could just see a hint of a smile in the corner of his lips as she turned to face her betrothed.

            “Sansa! Your king rides forth to battle. You should see him off with a kiss.” He embellished the reveal of a new sword, still glittering as if fresh from the forge. It had not yet tasted flesh and Sansa doubted it would ever while still in the hands of its current master. “My new blade. Hearteater I’ve named it. Kiss it.” The command oozed out of his mouth through curled lips. Sansa hesitantly bent down, wincing when her lips were mere inches from the blade. She half expected him to slice her throat. As she hesitated she could see the cloud of her breath on the blade and slowly touched her lips to the cold steel before quickly reeling back away from the killer and the sword. “You'll kiss it again when I return and taste my uncle’s blood.”

            “Will you slay him yourself?”

            “If Stannis is fool enough to come near me.” Joffrey huffed.

            “So you’ll be outside the gates fighting in the vanguard.” Her hopes were rising at the thought of some unknown Baratheon soldier putting Joffrey to the sword or spear, or perhaps his own men would see what a vile creature he was and throw him off the battlements and claim the loss to Stannis.

            Joffrey seemed at a loss until he spit out his usual insult. “A king doesn’t discuss battle plans with stupid girls.”

            Sansa merely reveled in the fact that there was still a chance that he would not be walking back through these halls again. “I’m sorry Your Grace, you’re right, I'm stupid. Of course you’ll be in the vanguard. They say my brother Robb always goes where the fighting's thickest. And he's only a pretender.” This quelled Joffrey’s rage for the time being.

            “Your brother’s turn will come. Then you can lick his blood off of Hearteater too.” He stormed past her without another word and she looked after him to the large man following swiftly behind who had not so much as glanced down at her while she bantered with the boy king. Had she truly lost him? Did he view her as a disgusting piece of meat after those men touched her? She had the rest of the night to think and pray with the other ladies in Maegor’s Holdfast.

            “Some of those boys will never come back.” Shae’s voice was unexpected in the growing silence of the throne room. The handmaiden looked yearningly to the figures leaving into the darkness.

            “Joffrey will. The worst ones always live.” Shae hushed her and they both walked in silence the rest of the way to the center of the Red Keep.

            On the battlements the drums on Stannis’ ships could be heard over the constant buzzing of men and horses. Sandor stood behind the idiot king while he bantered with his Imp uncle, even being forced into their stupid game at one point. Then, just as the enemy fleet broke through the fog that plagued the night sea, a single ship went out to meet them. Sandor was more concerned than the Imp was, fearing that if that was all they had to spare, the fighting outside the gates would last hours and they would lose a lot of men to this poor planning. But when the signal was struck and a single flaming arrow was sent out into the bay, Clegane barely had time to realize what they were doing before the green flames lit a trail towards the ship. Dragonfire.

            “Sansa!” The Queen sat on a raised dais in the middle of the room, clutching a glass goblet filled with red wine. Sansa quickly picked up her skirts and tiptoed around the other women and children toward the platform. “I had wondered where our little dove had flown. Is your red flower still blooming?” Sansa nodded. “Fitting, isn't it? The men will bleed out there and you will bleed in here.” Before she knew it a goblet was placed in her hand and she was ordered to drink. This would end up being a very long night for all of them.

            Near the door stood Ser Ilyn Payne, the royal executioner. Ever since her first run-in with the man he had frightened Sansa. Perhaps it was his lack of tongue or the stone-cold look he gave her, but she did not trust the man. “What’s he doing here?”

            “Ser Ilyn? He’s here to defend us. When the axes smash down those doors you may be glad to have him.” Something in her voice did not sound right. Sansa couldn’t tell if it was because the Queen was lying or because she was getting drunk.

            “But we have guards to defend us.”

            “Guards we have paid. Should the city fall they’ll be the first ones out of the door.” As she finished, a City Guard came in, speaking of three commoners who worked in the palace looting. They were sentenced to a beheading without a single thought. Their heads would serve as a warning to those who wished to follow in their footsteps.

            “The only way to keep the smallfolk loyal is to make certain they fear you more than they do the enemy.  Remember that if you ever hope to become queen.” She nearly sang the last sentence, swinging her goblet from side to side. The vicious look in Cersei’s eyes stopped Sansa from saying anything more to the Queen. She silently retreated back to the other ladies who sat on rugs and pillows and prayed. It was the only thing left she could do. Pray for her safety, the safety of the ladies around her, and the safety of Clegane out on the battlefield.

            The blast sent even those on the battlements reeling from the heat. The emerald flames engulfed at least twenty ships if not more. Bursts of the green fire fell from the sky, raining down on the remaining ships. From across the bay, the screams of dying men could be heard, splashes as those on fire wished to extinguish themselves. Those who had the misfortune to come into contact with the wildfire and survived would come out of it horribly disfigured, should they keep their distance from the shore and the awaiting army there.

            Sandor closed his eyes at the sight, the disgusting smell of burning flesh and wood reaching his nostrils, a smell he was all too familiar with. _Fuck the fire. What the fuck was the damn Imp thinking?_ He thought, listening to the dying howls of drowning men. Images of a younger Gregor flashed behind his eyelids, remembering the exact pain those men felt though he was far younger than them but the utter feeling of hopelessness was all the same.

            He could hardly tear his eyes away from the sight of slaughter while the Imp looked on slightly horrified and the boy king stood there grinning like an idiot. The lust for death suddenly escaped him and Sandor had half a mind to turn tail and run back to the Keep, to the warmth of Lady Sansa’s rooms and the comfort of her arms. She knew what he had suffered. The night of the tourney in a drunken haze he had told her of Gregor’s abuse, the hot coals of a brazier pressed into his face, the suspicious deaths of his father and sister. She was the only one who knew and he had pushed her away. In the distant the empowered shouts of men could be heard. _Stannis, you fool._

            Inside Sansa had seen the sudden burst of green light and could hear the screams of pain. Terrified, she gathered some of the ladies around her, kneeling on pillows and began to silently pray for the men outside the walls.

            “Sansa! Come here little dove.” Her eyes shot open and she sighed, rising and slowly making her way towards the Queen’s dais. Her knees were sore from praying but she rationalized that this slight bit of discomfort was nothing from what the men outside were going through. She forced them to bend to a curtsey as she mumbled her courtesies.

            “What are you doing?” The Queen used her goblet like a hand, pointing with it. The entire evening it had not left her grasp and the effects were evident on Cersei’s breath.

            “Praying.”

            “You’re perfect, aren’t you? Praying… What are you praying for?” Her words were slurred as she eyed Sansa cautiously, as a viper would a mouse.

            Sansa had been praying for the safe return of Sandor Clegane but she quickly lied, saying, “For the gods to have mercy on us all.” This struck a chord with the Queen as she raised the attack. The next few minutes was the Queen in her drunken state trying to scare Sansa, whether to test her or just for her own enjoyment Sansa didn’t know. She quietly sat through it, answering only when questioned. She motioned for her handmaiden to bring an extra goblet again, forcing Sansa to sit, drink, no, drink more!

            “I should’ve been born a man. I'd rather face a thousand swords than be shut up inside with this flock of frightened hens.” Cersei’s voice was loud enough for every woman and child within the hold to hear but no one would dare speak up or acknowledge the lack of tact. Except Sansa.

            “They're your guests under your protection. You asked them here!” She found it incredulous that the Queen would express such a notion, especially such a noble one as protecting the innocent.

            “It was expected of me as it will be of you if you ever become Joffrey’s queen. If my wretched brother should somehow prevail, these hens will return to their cocks and crow of how my courage inspired them, lifted their spirits.” The mockery that laced her tone made Sansa take a long hard gulp from her goblet, the sour taste of wine coating her dry mouth and warming her belly.

            “And if the city should fall?”

            Cersei’s shoulders slumped forward, her eyes narrowing and her face getting closer to Sansa. She was a shadowcat ready to pounce on the unsuspecting dove. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? The Red Keep should hold for a time, long enough for me to go to the walls and yield to Lord Stannis in person. If it were anyone else outside those gates, I might have hoped for a private audience but this is _Stannis Baratheon_. I’d have a better chance seducing his horse.” Sansa’s mouth was gaping open and when the Queen noticed, she quickly had another taste of wine.  “Have I shocked you little dove? Tears aren’t a woman’s only weapon. The best one's between your legs. Learn how to use it. Drink.” Again, Sansa obliged. Hopefully if she was as drunk as Cersei the barrage of insults and scare tactics wouldn’t seem so bad.

“Do you have any notion of what happens when a city is sacked? No, you wouldn't, would you? If the city falls these fine women should be in for a bit of a rape. Half of them will have bastards in their bellies by morning. You’ll be glad of your red flower then. When a man’s blood is up anything with tits looks good. Precious thing like you will look very, very good. A slice of cake just waiting to be eaten.” Sansa quickly finished her wine.

Sandor watched as the fires on Blackwater slowly died down and in their shadows boats filled with Baratheon troops rowed for shore. There were more than could be counted and in the darkness no one was quite sure how many boats there were. The Imp called the command to have the archers ready and the boy king was nearly pissing himself with fear.

            “Hound, form a welcome party for any Baratheon troop that manages to touch solid ground.” Tyrion commanded, barely glancing back at the sworn shield. Sandor was more than happy to leave the devastating sight and without a word rushed down the stairs to the courtyard that stood at the bottom, a tiny spit of dirt where hundreds of men were crammed in awaiting orders.

            “Let’s go! Stannis is sending us fresh meat!” The men riled at the grating sound of the Hound’s voice and began to shuffle about. Except Lancel Lannister who stood at the bottom of the stairs, sulking as if awaiting warm milk from his mother. Clegane shoved him in the chest to get his attention. “You too.” He spied the archery commander and grabbed him by the scruff of his shirt. “Any of these flaming fucking arrows come near me, I'll strangle you with your own guts!” The man quickly nodded as Clegane walked off towards the Mud Gate, his men trailing behind.

            On the other side of the wall the sound of falling arrows could be heard and the softened _thunk_ of bodies hitting the marshy ground. As the battle cries grew closer, a chorus of rocks hitting shields, armor, and bones joined the fall of corpses. Clegane gave a curt nod to the gate keeper and the doors were pushed open in front of him.

            “Any man dies with a clean sword, I'll rape his fucking corpse!” His men feared him far more than they could ever fear Stannis Baratheon’s troops and it showed in the quickened outpour of soldiers. The two armies met in a great clash of swords and shields. Blood of fallen warriors became a mist as swords convened with flesh and bone on both sides. Clegane was barely breaking a sweat with these greenboys, his longsword cutting a man in half, his boot shoving the man’s upper half to the ground before turning on another man.

            The Queen continued to drone on about her personal life in her drunken state with Sansa slowly sipping at her wine, keeping mute. A moment of silence alerted her to the change in the Queen’s demeanor. She was looking directly at Shae who sat on a small bed, watching her Lady.

            “I don’t think I know this one. Pretty. How long have you been in Lady Sansa’s service?” Cersei questioned. Sansa and Shae shared a quick glance at each other. Sansa knew that her handmaiden came to her under questionable circumstances. She had never bothered to ask, but if the Queen found out, it would not end well for the Essos girl.

            “A few weeks, Your Grace.” Her accent was thick, betraying her parentage. Cersei noticed.

            “And when did you leave Lorath? I had a Lorathi handmaiden once. But she was a nobleman's daughter. You're not. When did you come to Westeros?” The smile that had played upon Shae’s lips fell. If she was to get out of this alive, she must play upon everything she had learned.

            “Ten years, Your Grace.”

            “From Lorathi commoner to the Red Keep in ten years. I imagine it's a very interesting story. What's your name?” Sansa’s eyes never left Shae’s face which was as cold and hard as a statue.

            “Shae, Your Grace.”

            Before either could continue, the door to the room burst open revealing an injured Lancel Lannister. He rushed to the Queen and quickly divulged news of the battle outside. He made it sound hopeless, but Sansa squeezed her eyes shut and knew that as long as Sandor was out there, they stood a chance. As long as he did not fall.

            After a hushed argument, Lancel left quickly with Cersei resuming her talk with Sansa.

            “When I told you about Ser Ilyn earlier, I lied. Want to know the truth? Want to know why he's really here?” She held out her goblet for a maid to refill, barely sparing a sideways glance. “He's here for us. Stannis may take the city, he may take the throne but he will not take us alive.” Sansa found Ser Ilyn staring right back at her, the same terrifying glance that he had given her the day they met. _Just please let Sandor still be alive. He will save me._

            The battlefield was like a training ground to the likes of the Hound, the men falling just as easily as straw soldiers. The fires from the bay and the flaming arrows was slowly creeping towards the wall, blocking Sandor in with their horrendous memories. As he felled a man, blood painting his face and blurring his vision, a sickening sight froze him in place. A man on fire, flailing around as if trying to put out the flames was heading straight for him with not a man in the world to stop him in his path. No amount of strength could make his legs work as he let the man barrel straight towards him.

            The burning man suddenly stopped, an arrow sticking straight out of his left eye. Clegane watched as the mall dropped at his feet and once he found the courage to look away, it was Bronn who held the bow, looking as smug as he always did. He continued to look as Bronn deftly evaded an oncoming attacker, moving faster than his opponent and making several cuts along the man’s exposed flesh before slicing open his throat.

            The area around him was a massacre, and not of Stannis’ men. Men were on fire as well as the marsh. Surrounding him were his fallen men and enemies accounted for more than half of those still left fighting. All was lost. Without fear Clegane began to walk back to the gate with shouts of “Retreat!” and “Fall back!” echoing around the small spit of land. Inside the Mud Gate, his squire was next to him when he called for a drink. Realizing its lack of alcohol, he spit it out, demanding wine. This his squire had as well and Sandor drank the entire bottle in mere seconds.

            “Can I get you some iced milk and a nice bowl of raspberries too?” The Imp was mocking him, but if the little shit knew what was really happening on the other side of that wall, he’d turn tail and run.

            “Eat shit, dwarf. I’ve lost half my men. The Blackwater is on fire.” This last bit was more for himself than anyone else, though most could surmise why this was a problem. However, the royal Lannisters gave less than a golden shit about the wellbeing of their army.

            “Dog, I command you to go back out there and fight!” Joffrey’s high pitched squealing grated on Sandor’s ears. He sounded like a child throwing a temper tantrum, which was often the case.

“You're Kingsguard, Clegane. We must beat them back or they're going to take this city, your _king's_ city.” He had had enough of dealing with the little prick and his high and mighty family. It was time someone knocked the shit boy king down a peg.

“Fuck the Kingsguard. Fuck the city.” He inhaled before finishing, knowing full well what it would mean once the words came out of his mouth. “ _Fuck the king._ ”

Joffrey looked at him as though scared to speak. He may be a sworn shield and Kingsguard but the king feared him more than anyone else. He knew he had enough time to seek out Sansa before leaving the city for good.

In Maegor’s Holdfast the women were getting anxious. It had been hours and no word from anyone on the status of the city. Until Lancel Lannister came in to see the Queen. All Sansa heard was Lancel tell Her Grace, “The battle is lost, Your Grace.” Some of the women heard this and started to panic, children began to weep into their mother’s skirts. After hushed words, Cersei made a jab at Lancel’s wounds and he fell, Cersei leaving the room with Prince Tommen in tow. Before she knew what she was doing, Sansa began to formulate a lie that spilled from her lips like water with no effort to stop them.

“Don't be afraid. The Queen has raised the drawbridge, this is the safest place we can be. Joffrey's not hurt, he's fighting bravely. The knights have rallied behind him. They will save the city. Shall we sing a hymn? _Gentle mother, font of mercy, save our sons from war we pray_.”

The women all joined in the prayer, but Shae quickly spun Sansa around, her face inches away as she whispered words of warning.

“You must go. Run to your chamber and bar your door. Stannis won’t hurt you, this one will.” Her head nodded towards Ser Ilyn who stood vigilantly at the door, his eyes forever fixed on Sansa. She feared who else might be waiting for her once was out the door.

“Come with me.” Sansa pleaded, seeing that the maid did not intend to follow.

“I need to say goodbye to someone.” Sansa looked around at the group of women, silently wondering who it was exactly that Shae needed to say goodbye to. Hoping to persuade her, she reminded Shae of what the Queen had said about all the women being raped should the city fall. “No one is raping me.” Shae lifted one side of her skirt to reveal a dagger holstered to her tanned thigh. “Go. Run!” Sansa obliged and ran through the door and down winding pathways. She crossed the throne room which was now silent and empty, no king on the throne and no Hound beside him. Her feet continued to move her forward until she was at her chamber door. Once inside, she barred the door as she had been instructed and leaned on the cold wood.

Inside a candle still burned inside a lantern from where she had left it. Picking up the light, she walked towards her chest where her belongings still lay and noticed the doll her father had brought for her soon after they had moved to Kings Landing. Gently, she lifted the doll up, gazing at the painted eyes and lips and let a tear roll down her cheek at the memory. _If he was still alive, none of this would be happening,_ she thought.

“The Lady is starting to panic.” The gritty voice made her nearly jump out of her skin. She had not noticed Sandor sitting on the opposite side of the room in the shadows. Furious that only now he would pay her a visit, she snapped back at him.

“What are you doing here?”

He was drunk. Too many bottles of wine. “Not here for long. I'm going.”

This shocked her. She was mad at him but she never expected him to just leave her. He was supposed to be her savior. “Where?”

“Someplace that isn't burning. North might be, could be.” The look he gave her was hopeful. He meant for her to leave with him.

“What about the king?” She cursed herself for asking. She honestly didn’t care about the king and hoped he was already dead or dying. She just wanted to delay his leaving, get him to admit to her what he really felt. But a cold man like Sandor Clegane had spent years building up walls that were not so easily torn down by silly girls.

“He can die just fine on his own.” He took another swig of the wine he held in his hand. She was only now started to realize that his stench filled the room. Sweat and wine, blood and steel. It was a sickening combination, mixed with the smell of burning flesh that was wafting in through her window. “I could take you with me. Take you to Winterfell. I'll keep you safe. You want to go home?”

Her breath hitched in her throat. She wanted that more than anything in the world. But If this was how he was going to act, was she truly safer with him out in the open, being hunted, than to just stay put and pray for Robb to come save her?

“I'll be safe here. Stannis won't hurt me.”

He was in her face faster than she could blink. “Look at me! Stannis is a killer. The Lannisters are killers. Your father was a killer. Your brother is a killer. Your sons will be killers someday. The world is built by killers. So you better get used to looking at them.”

And she did look at him. Sweat covered his face and there were flecks of drying blood on his cheeks, though it was hard to tell where his burnt flesh ended and the blood of his enemies began. His jaw was a hard line but in his eyes she saw the softness that he held for her. The tension in her back released as she sighed, longing to reach out and cup his cheek and tell him that everything would be alright.

            “You won’t hurt me.”

            He let out breath he didn’t even know he had been holding. On the inhale he could smell the perfumes and incense Cersei used in her chambers but underneath was Sansa’s favorite scents: lilacs and lemon. He backed away from her, his armor clinking like the sound of bells. “No, little bird, I won't hurt you.” He turned on his heel to leave, and as his hand reached the bolt of the door, Sansa had an idea.

            “Wait.”


	5. For Winter

It had been weeks since the search parties had left the capital. The Goldcloaks had scoured the city all the way from every nook and cranny of the Red Keep to the trenches in Flea Bottom. Not a single scrap of evidence was found to lead them to Sandor Clegane, a deserter of the Kingsguard and a branded traitor by King Joffrey. Sansa would watch from the walls as their signature cloaks glimmered in the sunlight, raiding homes and brothels, pulling apprentices from their work and sons from their mother’s skirts. The only shred of evidence they would find of Sandor Clegane was hidden away in the false bottom of her trunk she saved for her most treasured possessions. In it lay only a single white cloak, blood stained and dirty, given to her by the man they hunted as he left after the Battle of Blackwater Bay, a parting gift to her. Sansa looked towards Visenya’s Hill and the Great Sept of Baelor, the great white marble building with a large domed roof and seven great spires reaching towards the sky, one for each face of the gods and every one made out of crystal. Normally its beauty would have taken her breath away, the crystals creating prisms that covered Visenya’s Hill and the surrounding marble plaza. But she could not forget that on those steps her father was beheaded by Joffrey’s _mercy_.

The afternoons were growing colder now that winter was on its way. Even the south could not escape the long winters. In another year or so King’s Landing would be filled with snow.  Looking across the city, she imagined what it would be like to see it buried in white with the Red Keep standing out like a drop of blood on the white background. A sharp wind bit through her plum embroidered dress causing her to hug her long sleeves across her torso, the cold gold medallion belt reminding her of her family’s words. _Winter is coming_. As the sun began to make its descent into the horizon, a Lannister sentinel came to her. The King was demanding her presence in council as the saviors of the city were to be honored. Everyone in King’s Landing knew of the Tyrell’s coming to Lannister aid with Lord Tywin himself leading the charge, pushing the last of the Baratheon troops out to sea. Sansa had dared to hope that Stannis would take back King’s Landing. He would have treated her better than the Lannister lions. Sighing at her duty, she lazily made her way to the Throne Room, trying not to draw any suspicion from the guards that had doubled since the battle. Now Tyrell and Lannister soldiers crowded the hallways, the green of the Highgarden soldiers bringing much needed color to the sandstone walls and the crimson of the lions that held her captive.

Inside the Throne Room was the largest crowd she had seen since the day her father had been sworn in as the Hand of the King. Lords and ladies dressed in silk gowns and embroidered tunics. The pomp and circumstance made Sansa sneer. _I remember the days when I was just like them. Ignorant and arrogant,_ she thought, making her way to the balcony overlooking the Iron Throne, its menacing shape being defeated by the egotistic child sitting haughtily on its seat. As he leaned on the edge of his seat, his golden stag’s horn crown reflected the stained glass windows of the hall. Combined with the deep crimson of his doublet, Sansa almost believed that he actually looked beautiful. Almost.

Sansa allowed herself a few moments of solace, retreating within herself. All she could think about was the image of Sandor inches from her face, the fear of the battle and fire raging in his eyes. How she had longed to hold him as he once held her in her moment of weakness, but her anger at his abandonment had left her cold and impassive. After naming his grandfather Hand of the King and savior of the city, Ser Loras Tyrell stepped forward, kneeling before the throne, his brunette curls falling into his eyes.

“Your house has come to our aid. The whole realm is in your debt, no more so than I. If your family would ask anything of me, you may ask it and it shall be yours.” Joffrey smirked, his eyes never leaving Lady Margaery Tyrell and her exposed cleavage. Sansa felt a sense of relief for a brief second, reveling in the idea that he might turn his attention to this Highgarden beauty for the afternoon.

“Your Grace, my sister Margaery, her husband was taken from us before...” Loras faltered, straining for the right wording. “She remains innocent. I would ask you to find it within your heart to do us the great honor of joining our houses.”

“Is this what you want, Lady Margaery?” Sansa balked, wondering if he could honestly be considering freeing her from her bond and taking Lady Margaery for a wife in her stead.

“With all my heart, Your Grace. I have come to love you from afar. Tales of your courage and wisdom have never been far from my ears and those tales have taken root deep inside of me.” Margaery sensually replied.

“I too have heard tales of your beauty and grace. Tales do not do you justice my lady. It would be an honor to return your love.” A hopeful breath. “But I am promised to another. A king must keep his word.” A heavy sigh. He would not release her after all.

“Your Grace,” Queen Cersei piped, her hands fidgeting in her lap, “in the judgment of your small council it would be neither proper nor wise to wed the daughter of a man beheaded for treason, a girl whose brother is in open rebellion against the throne as we speak. For the good of the realm, your councilors beg you to set Sansa Stark aside.”

“I would like to heed your wishes and the wishes of my people, but I took a holy vow.” Joffrey stood to express his false devotion to such things as promises made to the gods, making Sansa snicker under her breath. He was as devoted to the gods as Lord Renly had been devoted to his wife.

Grand Maester Pycell stepped forward at his King’s worries. “Your grace, the gods do indeed hold betrothal solemn, but your father, blessed be his memory, made this pact before the Starks revealed their falseness. I have consulted with the high septon and he assures me that their crimes against the realm free you from any promise you have made to them in the sight of the gods.” Pycell explained, bowing before his king. Joffrey paused, seeming to debate with himself about the benefits of his maester’s words.

“The gods are good. I am free to heed my heart. Ser Loras, I will gladly wed your sweet sister. You will be my queen and I will love you from this day until my last day.” The crowd erupted into chatter, a mix of cheering agreement and quiet discord. There were those who were as enthralled with Lady Margaery’s beauty as King Joffrey and accepted her with open arms, and a few remaining Stark loyalists who softly mumbled their concern and opposition, claiming Sansa was the better choice for their future Queen.

Through the chatter, Sansa smiled to herself, knowing that it was now Lady Margaery who would take the brunt of Joff’s abuse. Sansa turned to walk out of the Throne Room with her handmaids around her lightly touched her shoulder, expressing their sorrow and their lady being put aside, no longer destined to become the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. Sansa however was delighted beyond belief and silently thanked the old gods and the new that they saw fit to free her from his grasp. As she reached the large oak door, Peter Baelish grabbed her shoulder, turning her around. Sansa winced, his presence making her highly uncomfortable. She was well aware of Lord Baelish’s love for her mother and he made no effort to disguise his unadulterated attraction to Lady Catelyn’s eldest daughter.

“My lady, my sincerest condolences.” Baelish bowed, taking her right hand in his. She barely disguised her disgust at his touch, mimicking his pleasantries. “They're right, I'm not good enough for him.”

“You shouldn't say that. You’ll be good enough for many things. He’ll still enjoy beating you. And, now that you’re a woman, he'll be able to enjoy you in other ways as well.” The gleam in Baelish’s eyes made Sansa’s face pale. The thought that despite Margaery’s arrival into court and his new betrothal, she was to be the one to take his beatings as if nothing had changed sickened her to the core and she felt as though she would retch.

“But, if he's not marrying me…”

“He’ll let you go home? Joffrey's not the sort of boy who gives away his toys. You have a tender heart, just like your mother did at your age. I see so much of her in you. She was like a sister to me. For her sake, I’ll help get you home.” His lies seeped through his teeth but the promise of leaving her gilded cage and going back home to Winterfell and her siblings made her inhibitions drop just long enough to consider his words.

“Kings Landing is my home now.” She gritted her teeth, forcing the automatic response. No matter the connection Lord Baelish had to House Tully, she could not trust anyone from court except for her handmaiden Shae and of course Sandor Clegane.

He began to creep closer to her, the overwhelming stench of whores and rich oils filling her nose. “Look around you. They’re all liars here. And every one of us is better than you.” Not waiting for her rebuttal, he walked right past her, leaving Sansa staring off into the stained glass window depicting the Maiden. She made a prayer asking for safety and protection in this den of lions before returning to her chambers to prepare for her visit to the Great Sept of Baelor.

Only Shae accompanied her and Sansa was grateful for her silence along the way. The setting sun cast deep shadows along the streets leading to Visenya’s Hill but she had never felt safer walking the familiar trail to the Sept as she did on this journey.

Reaching the gates leading into the large garden sitting on the opposite side of the hill hidden from the ever watchful view of the Red Keep, Sansa dismissed the Lorathi maid who knowingly left to go sit in the last rays of sunshine in the marble courtyard. The garden was filled with beautiful trees all bearing the last fruit of the long summer, ripe lemons and oranges hung just waiting to be picked. Bushes filled with sunset pink and white blooms lined the small stone path she took toward the largest tree that sat against the great wall surrounding the Sept’s land. Sansa looked around her to look for the Queen’s spies or Lord Varys’ birds, but not a soul existed near the Sept at this hour. She quickened her pace towards the large oak tree, its verdant leaves edged in gold, reminding her of House Tyrell. Unless one stood directly next to the tree they would never notice that there was a tiny nook hidden between the wall and the tree, just large enough for a small private meeting. It was just large enough to hold a Silent Brother and a maiden fair.

The man was clad in brown-and-dun robes with a hood pulled over his head and a pointed cowl covering the lower half of his face and neck. With the dying light casting shadows, even his eyes were barely visible. He kept his hands tucked inside the large bell sleeves as if in constant prayer. Sansa approached him cautiously, eyeing his bent form with unease.

“Silent Brother, might we pray together in this quiet wood? It would make my heart glad to have one of the faith send his prayers with mine.” She reached out a hand and gently placed it on his large forearm. As was the code of his brotherhood, he did not speak but merely nodded his reply and bowed his head.

And from under the cowl she could hear his gruff laughter like the sound of steel grinding against a whetstone, full of relief and joy. She joined in his chorus and the two nearly toppled each other with their laughter. When their voices settled she gave him a sly smile and launched herself into his arms, giving him a fierce hug.

“Sandor, I’ve missed you. Has life as a pious Silent Brother been treating you well?” She asked, planting a gentle kiss on a bare patch of burnt cheek. When once the ruined side of his face frightened and disgusted her, she now reveled in its texture, rough and leathery yet holding all the pain and anguish this man had suffered and endured splayed out for all the world to see.

He pulled the cowl down to reveal the full expanse of burnt flesh and his thin lips stretched taught over his teeth in a smile. “I’m grateful that no one asks questions, but these damned prayers every hour are driving me mad! Couldn’t you have picked a better place to send me, girl?” He joked, pulling her to his chest and smelling her hair; lilac and lemons, the smell of the seven heavens to a man like Sandor Clegane. He was surprised when she returned the embrace, her small arms wrapping themselves around his waist.

“This was the only place they would never look for you. A blasphemous man such as you living in the Great Sept of Baelor? No one would ever think of it. Plus I could see you whenever I wished. It is no secret that a daughter of Catelyn Tully keeps the new gods as well as the old.” She stated, looking up at him. His grey eyes were the oncoming storm and hers the calm sea and she utterly lost herself in his as he did in hers. Their gaze held for what seemed like hours until Sansa straightened herself out, readjusting her skirts about her. She was nervous and embarrassed. It was unladylike to be alone with a man, especially a maid alone with a killer such as the once sworn shield to the King. But for all her septa’s teachings, Sansa would break a thousand rules to have the pleasure of visiting her Silent Brother every day. As the tension grew between the pair, Sansa’s stomach began to rumble and Sandor let out another peel of laughter.

“Come, little bird. I have some food left in my room.” Sandor stated as he held on to her upper arm, pulling the cowl back over his face before leading her into the sept. They were heading down to his room located above the crypts, a silent place where no one would find them and they could talk in secret. When he had first arrived, with Sansa yards away to observe that he would not be found out, his silence did not answer questions but his brothers robes did and no questions were asked. He was given a job and a title in exchange for shelter and food. Brother Digger, they called him, for he was given the unwanted task of keeping the sept’s graveyard, a task which he took willingly. He was expected to work at nightfall under cover of darkness, which fit his plan just fine and kept him out of the sight of the City Watch.

The winding staircases and long hallways reminded Sansa of Winterfell, the dark stone walls below the main level seeping with dampness, though it lacked the warmth of the natural hot springs that ran through Winterfell’s walls. Down and down they went, many levels before reaching a simple hallway lined with small wooden doors. At the far end was his room, a tiny abode with a cot, table and two chairs, and a torch that hung on the far wall. It suited Sandor who needed little but sustenance and safety.

Both sat in silence while they ate a simple meal of cold stew and hard brown bread with cheap wine, rather taking their fill of each other’s presence. Since his departure, Sansa had not escaped from Joffrey’s ever watchful guard that stood outside her door day and night. Once word got out that she was released as his betrothed, the guards stopped caring about her safety and she and her handmaidens were left to fend for themselves.

Sansa dabbed at the corners of her lips to rid them of crumbs, coughing politely to garner his attention. He looked up from his last spoonful of stew, eyebrows arched in question.

“I’m no longer betrothed to Joffrey.”

Sandor nearly spit the broth into her face. “You’re what? What happened? Did he hurt you again? I swear, I’m going to—”

“No, no I’m fine. Joffrey offered anything to Ser Loras for his houses aid in the battle, and he asked that Joffrey marry his sister, Lady Margaery. Even I have to admit she is quite beautiful and sensual, though I fear for her safety and good looks. It seems that the High Septon agreed that it would not behoove a king to marry the daughter of a traitor, so I am freed from my betrothal.” Sansa stated matter-of-factly. Sandor was overjoyed.

“That’s wonderful news, little bird! That means we can leave soon. We’ll have to devise a plan.” He drank a celebratory glass of wine, finished it in one gulp, and poured himself another.

Sansa sighed. “Littlefinger offered to take me away.”

“He did WHAT?” Sandor roared. He had never fully trusted Baelish, neither did anyone in court save for her father, whose misplaced trust cost him his life.

“I told him I didn’t want to leave but he caught my bluff and left abruptly. I don’t think it’s going to be so easy to leave.” Sansa folder her hands in her lap and played with a loose thread on her skirt.

Sandor rubbed his stubbled cheek, contemplating their next move. “You say this Margaery Tyrell is now going to marry the little shit, correct? I expect they’ll plan it for as soon as possible, only two months from now at the most. Do you think you can survive that long, little bird? This might be our only chance, to leave when everyone is so preoccupied on the new Queen they’ll forget all about you and you and I can leave together with none the wiser.” Sansa opened her mouth to reply, but closed it again as she thought. Two months did not seem so long after having spent the last year in the Lannister’s hands. She nodded her approval.

“What should I have packed? I will do so on the morrow, just in case we need to leave at a moment’s notice.” Sansa rose to take a more comfortable seat on the edge of Sandor’s bed, letting go of her inhibitions and reclining against the wall. Clegane watched her hungrily, trying to subdue his lust for her from taking root in a physical manner. He was not sure if she could see his fidgeting at her relaxed form, but he could swear he saw a small grin in the corner of her luscious lips.

Rising to sit with her, he started to list of items that would be essential for what would end up being a very long journey. “Small clothes, coin, and any food stuffs you can sneak away: breads, cheeses, salted meats. You must make sure to wear your most sturdy boots and bring along that fur cloak of yours. If we’re heading North the snows will catch us before we ever reach the Trident.”

He sat down on the bed with a heavy creak, leaning back in the same fashion she was. She beamed at him and laid her head on his chest, listening intently to his increasing heartbeat, causing her to giggle.

“You do not have to be afraid of me, Ser.” She felt him tense up at her words, laughing at his aversion to titles. “I’m only japing.” She teased, slapping him lightly on the thigh. She blushed when she realized his feelings for her were showing themselves in ways a woman ought not know until her wedding night and quickly retracted her hand. He chuckled and took a hold of her hand with one of his, grabbing her chin with the other so she was forced to look into his stormy eyes.

Sandor did not even have a chance to act on his emotions before the Lady Sansa demurely lifted herself up to lean on his shoulder and placed her soft lips on his. Both their hearts were racing in time with each other, her fingers intertwining with his. When she broke the kiss and started into his eyes, they reflected her sadness and anger.

“Why did you abandon me?”

Sandor looked blankly back at her, trying to understand her meaning. He would never abandon her; it was her room he had fled to the night of the battle. Reading his ignorance, she clarified. “When I came to thank you for saving me, you were nothing but rude. You avoided me for days, and when I finally see you again before the battle, you never even glanced my way. Explain yourself.” She ordered, her arms crossed over her chest.

Stammering, Sandor tried to come up with an excuse he knew he didn’t have. “A-After seeing the pain you were put through, I thought that maybe if I taught you to see the world as it was, filled with vile men and killers, you would be more cautious and not wander away from safety again. You may live in a gilded cage, but cages protect little birds from housecats. I didn’t mean to come across so harshly. It was stupid of me, little bird, and I apologize for my crudeness.” It was the first apology he could ever remember giving his entire life, and the truth flowed off of his tongue smoother than wine. Sansa could see how the apology affected his usual rough demeanor and humbled him. Perhaps spending time in a sept had taught him manners, but she would not push her luck and accepted his apology with another kiss, though far more chaste than the first. She was still a lady and had to remember her lessons and manners. It was not becoming for a noble woman to become familiar with a man who is not her betrothed and the thought of her lady mother catching her in this situation sent her blushing.

“Don’t you ever think to do that again, Sandor Clegane. I will not have it. I will have your full trust as you will have mine. Promise me that you will trust me?”

“Aye, I trust you, little bird.” As Sansa started to grin, her mouth broke into a yawn, the suffocating darkness making her tired.

The corner of Sandor’s twitched into a slight grin as he rose, gently pulling her up with him. “I think it’s time I get you back to your handmaiden, girl.” He stated, pulling up his cowl, forcefully bending his back to lessen his height and leading her out of the darkened hallways and up the stairs, the light from the main hallway of the Great Sept growing stronger with each level. As they landed on the main floor he gave her shoulder a quick squeeze to say goodbye before nodding and sending her out into the courtyard where Shae waited for her.

“What did you pray for, m’lady?” Shae questioned, a knowing smirk betraying her knowledge.

“For winter.” She stated, turning to see as Sandor watched her leave from the shadows, giving her a knowing wink. 


	6. The Truth Is Terrible

            Sansa sat with Sandor in his tiny room, the torch flame providing the background noise as Sansa relayed every detail of the past few days that she had been away from the Sept. The light enhanced the depth of his scars, turning shallows into rivers marking his cheek and she marveled at how something so gruesome could seem so profound. Two cups of water sat between them, Sandor fisted his while Sansa’s fingers drummed on the wooden table as she told him everything.

❦

The pier jutting into the ocean provided a serene spot to play Sansa’s favorite game of pretend. She watched as the merchant ships sailed in and out of the nearby docks, their bright white sails billowing in the wind and their wooden hulls plagued with pale barnacles. Maybe one day she would be brave enough to board a ship like the ones in the bay and they could take her far away from her gilded nightmare.

            “That one’s carrying silks back to Dorne, except the captain will have enough of the nobles need for expensive wine and choose to stay in Dorne for the winter where it is always warm.” Sansa stated, pointing out a larger ship further in the distance heading across the Narrow Sea with pale blue sails and a sea green mermaid as its figure head. Shae snorted her derision.

            “I don’t want to play this game. I don’t get the point.” Shae complained, quickly fanning her face with her hand. It was an unusually warm day for autumn day but Sansa still wore her heavy Winterfell gowns. She had lost her taste for the southron styles.

            “You’ve got to invent a story about where the ship is going and why.” Sansa replied.

            “Why should I make up a story when I know the truth?” Lady Stark exhaled with her eyes fixed on the ships bathed in a brilliant purple with a black designed etched into its hull.

            “Because the truth is either terrible or boring.”

            Behind her Lord Baelish approached, breathing out his thinly disguised courtesies. He excused himself from Ros, the main whore who helped him run his brothel, and she sat down with Shae some yards away from the nobles, conversing quietly.

            Sansa barely listened to Lord Baelish as he gave more concrete details to his proposition of stealing her away from the city with him. He could barely tell her where he was being sent or when, but that she would be safer in his company. It was a lie that Sansa was almost forced to believe if not for the Silent Brother that waited for her in Baelor’s Sept. Baelish gave her hand a quick yet slimy kiss and left, the red-haired Ros following closely behind him. _I am so tired of pleasantries_.

            When the two ladies returned to Lady Stark’s chamber, a bath was prepared for Sansa to freshen up after her morning by the sea. Sansa’s hair fell in tangles across her shoulders, the smell of salt and sun clinging to its tendrils. The hot water lapping at her naked body brought back memories of the hot springs of Winterfell and how she and her siblings would swim in them during the summer snows. She submerged her head, letting her fiery hair drift on the surface and small bubbles floated from her nostrils.

            After washing her hair and body, Sansa dressed herself in a modest purple gown in the fashion of the North that complimented her Tully hair, which Shae was diligently brushing to make it gleam and shine. As the maid pulled tight the laces on her dress, a gentle rapping came from her door. Sansa nodded for the visitor to be let in as she reached behind her back to tie the last bow on the laces herself.

            It was Ser Loras, come to invite Lady Sansa to lunch with the Tyrell women on behalf of his sister, Lady Margaery, and their grandmother, the Lady Olenna Tyrell. Sansa was delighted to have the opportunity to spend time with other noble ladies, especially ones with such high standing as the Tyrells. Though Margaery made her feel slightly threatened by her beauty and less than modest dress, she had heard grand tales of her unending kindness, especially the latest of her visit to the orphanage in Flea Bottom. Lady Olenna, however, was a mystery to Sansa but she was eager to meet the leading lady of House Tyrell.

            She gave a pleasant nod to Shae and went to link her arm through Ser Loras who lead her down the stairwell and to the garden. In the last days of the long summer the red roses were in full bloom in the towering bushes that lined the pathway as if to dare the coming winter to destroy their splendor. Sansa had a hard time appreciating their beauty in comparison to the Knight of the Flowers. She shied away from conversation with blushes and muttered courtesies, wondering if he still remembered the day of the tourney when he presented a red rose, such as those that surrounded them, as his favor.

            When she found her courage and reminded Ser Loras of the Hand’s Tourney, he seemed almost confused. She probed and reminded him, but even his assurance seemed false. She groaned and decided to give up, realizing that to the mind of naïve girl, a favor meant the world, especially the favor of such a handsome and renowned knight such as Ser Loras. But to the knight himself, it meant nothing at all, just another flower he was obligated to give to a worthless noble girl when his true favor lied elsewhere.

            When they reached the patio, tables were set all around with other ladies mulling around, servants standing to the side in constant waiting should they be needed. Lady Margaery came and took Sansa from her brother and led her to the center of the patio where a single chair stood, an elderly woman with her hair covered in a beautiful blue headdress. Though she was aged many years, her demeanor gave her a sort of demure beauty.

            “Lady Sansa, I have the pleasure of introducing you to my grandmother, the Lady Olenna Tyrell.” She stated. Lady Olenna reached her hand out. “Kiss me, child.” She demanded, and Sansa obliged the woman, kissing the emerald ring that sat on the lady’s middle finger. She smelled of roses.

            The ladies exchanged pleasantries and apologies at the death of their deceased family members, with Sansa realizing just how sharp tongued Lady Olenna was in her old age.

            “Are you hungry, child? We have lemon cakes.”

            Sansa smiled in response. “Lemon cakes are my favorite.”

            “So I’ve been told.”  Sansa never had the pleasure of knowing either of her grandmothers, but Lady Olenna was just the kind of woman Sansa imagined her own grandmothers would have been like, especially grandmother Stark; sharp-tongued but kind, cold but beautiful. A serving boy came to help the elder Tyrell out of her seat and into an elaborate tent set up at the far end of the garden with a singular table set with milk tea and finger cakes.

            Unexpectedly, Lady Olenna brought up the subject of Joffrey, imploring Sansa to reveal all the details about the boy’s personality to them. “Now, I want you to tell me the truth about this royal boy, this Joffrey.”

Terrified, Sansa could not find the words to cover the lie and began to stutter. “I-I-”

“You, you. Who else would know better? We’ve heard some troubling tales. Is there any truth to them? Has this boy mistreated you? Has he ripped out your tongue?” She snapped when Sansa failed to answer her.

“Jof- King Joffrey, he, His Grace is very fair and handsome and as brave as a lion.” Sansa blurted, hoping the women would buy the lie.

“Yes, all Lannisters are lions. And when a Tyrell farts it smells like a rose. But how kind is he, how clever? Does he have a good heart, a gentle hand?” Lady Olenna pressed her, the kind voice that flowed from her like honey softening her reserve.

Lady Margaery chimed in, her lithe voice a comfort. “I’m to be his wife, I only want to know what that means.”

Before she had a chance to answer, the serving boy came with the lemon cakes, placing a slice in front of each woman, Lady Olenna sending him out for her cheese. As he left, Sansa let out the breath she didn’t know she was holding.

“Are you frightened child? No need for that, we're only women here. Tell us the truth. No harm will come to you.”

“My father always told the truth.”

“Yes, he had that reputation. And they named him traitor and took his head.” The tone in her voice spoke to her admiration for her father.

“Joffrey. Joffrey did that.” Her teeth ground at the memory. “He promised he'd be merciful and he cut my father's head off and he said that was mercy. And he took me up on the walls and made me look at it.” Sansa choked back the tears that threatened to spill over. She regretted that horrid day when she had thought of pushing Joffrey over the edge of the bridge. She should’ve pushed him and been rid of him once and for all. It would not bring her father back but it might have alleviated the pain she felt at the loss of her father and her imprisonment. It had been Sandor Clegane to stop her and a twang of anger bubbled inside her.

Lady Olenna’s voice startled her out of her rage induced daydream. “Go on.”

This was wrong. She shouldn’t have said those things. “I-I can't, I n-never, meant, my father was a traitor, my brother as well, I have traitors blood, please don't make me say any more.”

“She’s terrified grandmother, just look at her.” Margaery pleaded, casting Sansa a pitied look.

“Speak freely child, we would never betray your confidence, I swear it.” Lady Olenna reached a withered hand out and grasped Sansa’s, giving it a reassuring squeeze.

It took a few fleeting seconds to try and still her hammering heart and slow her quickened breath before looking between the two women, lips trembling, “He’s a monster.”

Their reaction took her by surprise. She had just told them that Margaery’s betrothed was one of the worst men alive in Westeros yet neither woman seemed the bit disturbed at this turn of events.

“Huh, that’s a pity.” The elder Tyrell woman stated while Margaery gave her a look that said that this might just be no more than a minor inconvenience, popping a grape into her mouth.

“Please don't stop the wedding.” Sansa begged, not wishing to be the cause of any disturbance in Joffrey’s plans, lest she take the brunt of his fury. Though she feared for Margaery’s safety, there was no evidence that Joffrey would act against her due to her immense beauty. Sansa, on the other hand… well, she was expendable now.

“Humph, have no fear. The lord oaf of Highgarden is determined that Margaery shall be queen. Even so, we thank you for the truth.” Lady Olenna gave Sansa’s hand a pat. “Oh look, here’s my cheese.” The serving boy returned and the Tyrell women indulged in the delights set before them but Sansa had lost her appetite and politely declined. She sat for the rest of the luncheon in relative silence.

❦

As Sansa relayed all of this information to Sandor, she had zoned off, staring into the flame of the torch, never noticing when he had stood up halfway through her tale and began pacing around the tiny cell of a room.

“I don’t trust those Tyrell women. There’s something off about them.” Sandor growled, wringing his hands. The burnt side of his face was twitching in anger at the audacity of Lady Olenna prying such information out of Sansa who was visibly shaken at revealing Joffrey’s true identity. Even now just speaking the words her eyes involuntarily flitted about the room, wary of any strange ears taking heed.

Sansa nodded in affirmation, taking a long sip of water to quench her dry throat. “I did find out that the wedding will take place within the month. The king and bride are going through their fittings and the Throne Room is being decorated for the occasion; lions and roses everywhere.” Sansa mumbled, fidgeting in her seat. Speaking of Joffrey, she knew she should head back to the Red Keep before she was missed. She had been making daily trips to the Sept and someone was bound to start asking questions. To be quite honest, she was surprised no one had asked any questions already. It had been over two weeks since she started making daily pilgrimages to the Great Sept and she never took a palanquin.

“Little bird, you need to make sure your things are fully ready. Cloths, salves from the maesters, if you need it, have it stored away in a safe place. I’ll not have you being found out before we leave.” He ordered, sitting back down across from her.

“I understand. I really must be going. It must be near nightfall outside and the guards will be looking for me. I have a curfew now; no going out after dark.”

“Aye, better be getting along then.” He rose and ushered her out, his large hand placed on the small of her back the entire way up to the central hallway. It was a more intimate gesture than Sansa was used to but it provided so much comfort that her life had been lacking since she left Winterfell and she willingly leaned back into his hand to feel the warmth.

Outside the sun was fully hidden, dark purples and blues dominating the sky. Shae was waiting in her normal spot and rushed to her. It was far more dangerous to walk through the city at night and they had to hurry. Not having the chance to say goodbye to Sandor, the women rushed through the empty streets, Shae’s hand hovering over the blade she kept strapped to her thigh.

Both women felt uneasy at the deserted streets. Even at night there were always drunks slobbering from tavern to tavern and street urchins running about trying to catch cats for their supper. But tonight there were no people to be seen.

“I don’t like this.” Shae stated, taking a full circled glance around her. As they neared Fishmonger Square, the silence broke to the sound of clamoring steel, the sound of armed men walking towards them with their voices growing louder. _Goldcloaks_ , Sansa thought. She was not supposed to be outside of the castle after dark and if she was caught, Joffrey would hear about it and have her beaten if she was lucky. Both of them broke into a sprint heading towards Aegon’s High Hill but as they rounded a corner, two pairs of arms reached out from the alley and grabbed the pair of them.

“Well, well, well. What do we have here? The Stark she-wolf and her Lorathi bitch.” A rough voice spit into Sansa’s ear. It was not the Goldcloaks as she had thought. It was Ser Meryn Trant and Ser Boros Blount of the Kingsguard. Joffrey already knew she was missing.

❦

“What were you praying for, Lady Sansa?” Joffrey sneered down at her. Sansa was alone on the cold marble floor of the Throne room, her dress ripped off her shoulders and new bruises covering her face and arms. Joffrey always hit first and asked questions later. It ensured that she comply with his wishes honestly.

“I was praying for the Seven to bless your wedding, Your Grace, as well as a healthy son for you and Lady Margaery.” Sansa sobbed as she tried to hold the shreds of her gown to her bare chest.

“You’ve been making an awful lot of trips to the Sept, my lady. And it is such a far walk. Why do you not take the palanquins we provide for you? Are you not satisfied with my generosity?”

“No, Your Grace! You are far too generous! I walk to be more humble before the gods, Your Grace. They will heed my words much better if I come to them humble.” She stated. The blood pooling under the skin on her cheek was throbbing painfully and she winced.

“Will they not heed you because you are praying for your one true king?” Joffrey rose from the Iron Throne, the crimson half cloak that hung from his shoulders swaying with every exaggerated step he took towards her. The Kingsguard lined the bottom of the steps, providing the only barrier between him and her, though it served little purpose. She would rather have his weak hands hit her than the steel gloved hand of Ser Meryn.

“I-I- didn’t think of that, Your Grace. I’m just a stupid girl.” She stuttered. _Please let him leave me be, please let him be satisfied._

“You’re right, you are a stupid girl. But these trips to the Sept are causing too much disruption and you need to learn your lesson of what happens when you are too much of a nuisance. Ser Meryn? Ser Boros? Teach her this lesson.” Joffrey hissed and the two largest Kingsguard members slowly walked forward, still clad in armor that clinked with every step. Sansa was trembling uncontrollably as they drew their swords and began to swing them at her, her screams only feeding her King’s pleasure.

❦

            Over a week passed until her wounds healed. It was worse than any time before for this time she had provoked him herself, not the actions of her father or brother. This had been her own stupid fault.

            Shae avoided the worst of it. Sansa took her punishment for her. The maid was far gentler with her as she nursed her wounds, applying poltices and salves Maester Pycell brought daily to her chambers. Shae avoided making eye contact with Sansa and was apologizing as often as she could for the treatment she received. It seemed odd to Sansa, coming from a toughened Lorathi who touted her alacrity to kill, though she wrote it off as the girl’s way of making up her castigation.

            The day was chilly and grim when Sansa finally felt ready to head back to the Sept. _Sandor must be worried sick about me,_ she thought, wrapping a pink shawl tightly around her shoulders. The bruises on her face still held a sickening mix of greens and purples that refused to fade which no powders could seem to mask. She would not have to say a word for Sandor to realize what had happened to her. For the first time the two women took a Baratheon palanquin to the Great Sept.

            The guards were reluctant to leave her side, but once at the common door at the foot of Baelor the Blessed they allowed to girl to enter on her own and stood sentry outside. Shae entered with her, waiting hear the graves of the last Targaryens for her lady.

            Sansa did not wait for Sandor to come fetch her but hurried down to his chambers. The shawl covered her face as she hid in alcoves from the septons and septas who resided there. The further she went down the fewer people to block her path until her hand reached the simple door of her Silent Brother. She knocked once and could hear the wooden chair against the stone floor and steeled herself for his reaction.

            The shadows inside hid her face behind her hair and shawl as she stepped around him inside, her back to the man and the door. The flame in front of her made the bruises on her face sting and she shied away from the wall, bumping into the encroaching Sandor.

            “You alright, little bird?” His voice was quiet which scared her. Sucking in her breath, she dropped the shawl to the floor and turned to him, showing him her face. His breath hissed out of his teeth. “Joffrey did this to you?” he fumed, his hands clenched so tightly at his side that his knuckles were turning white. She did not speak but merely nodded, falling to the bed and resting her head in her hands. She felt ugly when she always wanted to be beautiful for him, a winter rose.

            Sandor was shaking silently for an eternity before his chest heaved and he roared, shaking the wooden bedframe. She screamed into her hands as he upturned the table, sending it crashing into the wall and splintering into pieces. He repeated the same with both chairs until he collapsed on the floor in front of her, taking her trembling hands in his.

            “I swear to you, little bird, I’m going to kill that whoreson.” His eyes burned not from the torch but from something deep. Before she could respond, he threw his brothers robes on and thundered out of the room, breaking the door of its hinges on his way out and leaving Sansa Stark weeping silently on the bed.


	7. Day for a Wedding

The news of her brother and mother’s death came as the biggest shock to Sansa. Every time she would hear word of Robb’s march, it sounded so positive, that he was surely coming to rescue her and kill Joffrey. But the damned Freys betrayed them all, slaying her brother and his men, sickeningly replacing his head with that of his direwolf, Grey Wind. However, it was the thought of losing her lady mother that hurt Sansa the most. Though she loved her brother dearly, it was her mother who had shown her the most love. She hardly left her room for days and neither ate nor drank as she wept her soul into her pillow.

❦

Two weeks passed and Sansa’s visits to the Sept became scarce, the words exchanged even scarcer. She visited him to bring him news but that was all. At word of her brother’s murder, he barely offered any consoling words, merely apologized awkwardly before becoming silent again. She feared his rage again and resented the fact that he had acted so harshly around her and could not console her in her time of need. It made her feel so worthless and ugly that he cared more for revenge than for her safety and well-being. But she was a child and had been fooled by kind words and promises of safety. _I will not be fooled again._

The day before the wedding, Sansa paid one last trip to the Great Sept of Baelor, this time choosing to kneel in the hall before the Maiden to offer her prayers. The marble floor was cold through the fabric of her dress and hard but this was a comfort to the eldest Stark daughter. She prayed for her safety on the long journey ahead of her, for the strength to remain pious and pure when living in the wilderness alone with a man, and for Sandor’s heart to calm and be at peace. When she felt this was sufficient, she sought out the tree in the garden where knight and maid were first reunited.

In the secret corner only they knew Sandor waited for her. His large fingers played with the frayed hem of his sleeves. _She’s late,_ he thought to himself, staring at the clouds obstructing the sun. _Maybe… maybe that little shit got to her again._ He shook his head, pushing the thought from his mind. He had been so stressed lately that he could barely hold a conversation with the girl and she seemed to grow more and more discomforted around him. _It’s about time she realized what I am_. _But I shouldn’t have lost my damn head._ He had a hard time swallowing his own pity. In the distance he spotted her fiery hair bobbing as she glided towards the tree.

“Silent Brother, might we pray together in this quiet wood? It would make my heart glad to have one of the faith send his prayers with mine.” Sansa approached him, repeating the line coldly, the first thing she had said to him in the garden those months ago, a secret only they shared. As the two knelt together, he glanced around them before scratchily whispering to her.

“Do you have your things together, lass?” She nodded. “Good. The wedding feast will go well into the night. When everyone is good and drunk, you excuse yourself and head back to your room. Grab your bag and get to the stables. I’ll meet you there.”

“But how will you get there without detection?” Sansa whispered back.

“Don’t you worry yourself about that. Just be there, girl.” He stood up and slipped his hands into his sleeves. “And don’t go near Stranger. He’ll bite your ear off.” Sandor clumsily turned on his heel and retreated inside the Sept, once again leaving Sansa Stark all alone. She picked herself up and quietly returned back to her palanquin and guards. A sickening feeling was taking root in her gut that she would never again know what it was like to feel at home somewhere. Winterfell would never be home again without her family.

_Others take my fucking tongue_ , Sandor paced inside his room. He had swept the broken pieces of wood into the further corner where they served as a reminder of his damned temper. He mindlessly kicked at the mound, sending splinters scattering across the floor. He sighed and sunk into his bed. _I have no idea how to get to the stable without killing every guard on the way_. He wasn’t opposed to the idea, but as soon as he killed someone, the entire guard would be alerted and it would impede their escape. He reached for his longsword that lay underneath him in a slit in the mattress. He felt it every night as a constant reminder of who he was and how far he had fallen. As he fingered the cold steel, the torchlight reflecting in the blade reminded him of the little bird with her Tully hair. _I’ve been a goddamn fool to her_. Roaring, he hurled the sword into the wood pile where it stuck straight up in a beam from the table, light bouncing off the steel.

The ride back to the Red Keep was bumpy, the bearers providing no courtesy to their load. Shae walked beside the palanquin, her hand placed atop the roof in protection. Neither of them trusted the guards Joffrey assigned to Lady Stark.

Outside of her tiny wooden cage, King’s Landing was bustling with the sounds of life. Children ran alongside the litter chasing a small cat who hissed as it ran away with a rat in its jaws. Vendors were hawking their wares, fresh fruit and hot bread, jewelry of cheap metals and fake gems and sweet oils to perfume merchant’s wives. The commoners were filthily clad in tattered rags but the smiles on their faces were genuine. As she peered out, a small girl no older uthan ten stopped and stared back at her. She had muddy brown hair cropped short and a long face, a fat pigeon grasped in her grimy claws. The girl reminded Sansa of Arya, her wild sister.  She never though that she would miss the little sister who would tease her and pull her hair. Sansa cried the rest of the way back to the castle.

 Stepping into the courtyard, Sansa realized just how many people had been brought in from all corners of the Seven Kingdoms and even from across the Narrow Sea to prepare for the royal wedding. Men with forked beards dyed blue, ladies dressed in sheer silks that made Sansa blush, and children running around that she assumed worked for Lord Varys.

Stone walls were being draped with green, gold, black, and crimson banners to mark the joining of Houses Tyrell and Baratheon-Lannister, as Joffrey claimed both Houses. The colors clashed horribly and hurt Sansa’s eyes. As she made her way towards the Tower of the Hand, she caught sight of the Lord Baelish striding her way in his usual haughty manner.

“Lady Sansa, what a pleasure to see such beauty among this chaos.” He chimed, kissing her hand with a little too much vigor, leaving a trail of saliva on her skin. She repressed the bile in her throat.

“I am very glad to see the King so happy to have found a lady befitting his station.” She replied, motioning towards the King’s banner that hung overhead. Petyr scoffed, disgusted by the combination of Baratheon and Lannister.

“My Lady, I was wondering if we could speak in private.” He offered his arm and she reluctantly took it. She nodded and he led her out into the garden that stood just below the Tower of the Hand, a sight she took pleasure in every morning and evening from her window. They strolled in silence towards her favorite spot, an ornate marble bench that stood among bushes of winter roses. She favored their blue petals over those of the summer flowers that were found in abundance in the south, as had her late Aunt Lyanna. Baelish awkwardly placed himself up on the seat and patted next to him, inviting her to join him. She complied.

“I am very sorry for your loss, my lady.” He said, but Sansa merely nodded in reply. She hated having to hear it again and again that her family was slowly dying off and leaving her to rot. “Have you decided what you are wearing to the wedding, my lady?” The small talk bored her, but she indulged him.

“A silver gown given to me by my lady mother in the fashion of the North. One must always remember where you come from.”

“Truer words have never been spoken. I wonder if you might honor me by wearing something special I had made for you.” He pulled a silver hairnet laced with deep purple amethysts out of a small pouch tied to his waist. It was beautiful but more than she could ever afford to pay back in her current situation.

“My lord, you honor me, but it is too extravagant. And now that I am no longer meant to be Queen, I cannot possibly pay you back.” She flushed, her hand hovering over the gem encrusted accessory that lay in his hands. It was truly beautiful but she could not possibly hope to wear it.

“My dear, I do not ask that you pay me back. This is my gift to you. You have missed out on receiving wedding gifts, this is a way to praise you for being such a beautiful representation of House Stark.” His words were acid in her ears yet she could not take her eyes off of the hairnet. Perhaps she could wear it as a favor to Lord Baelish in honor of the friendship he and her mother had once shared.

“I suppose it would be alright. You are too kind, my lord.” She reached out for the hairnet but Baelish quickly pulled his hand back.

“I wouldn’t handle it too roughly, my dear. It is very delicate and we wouldn’t want it to break before the festivities, would we?” He chuckled to himself, dropping it back it back into the black velvet pouch he pulled it from and handed it to Sansa. She marveled at its heaviness in her hands. But there was a tiny voice in the back of her head screaming that he must have an ulterior motive. She hushed it by giving him a genuine smile.

❦

The castle was filled with more people than Sansa had ever seen, ranging from Casterly Rock all the way to Dorne. The crown had spared no expense for what was touted as the most expensive wedding in living memory. Sansa shied away from all of them and preferred the solitude of her chambers. Around noon the parade of royals made their way to the Great Sept of Baelor, only 700 of the most important people invited inside its great walls while the rest of the party remained outside, cooking in the southron sun.

Sansa was perched with the Lannisters, still their hostage. Next to her was Tyrion Lannister who kept shifting from side to side, a permanent scowl etched on his face.  

The ceremony was surprisingly beautiful, the room reflecting the prisms created by the High Septon’s crown, spun gold with crystals woven into it sitting high on his head. The royal couple stood between the Father and the Mother, befitting their new station as the parents of the realm. Joffrey looked oddly regal in a rose colored doublet and crimson cloak with gold and black etchings of the lion and stag, the gold crown on his head blending into his golden hair. But it was Margaery who took her breath away. A dress of ivory silk and Myrish lace fit the girl like a glove, her skirt flowing out like the petals of a rose embroidered with seed pearls and her maiden cloak in Tyrell colors, golden roses on a green field draped over her shoulders.

After seven vows, seven blessings, seven promises and exchange of cloaks, it was time to file out. The courtyard outside the doors was packed with commoners and visitors from all over Westeros. It required a pathway lined with Goldcloaks from the City Watch making a pathway large enough to avoid the groping hands of those below them. The royal couple left first, Joffrey smiling in what looked like true happiness and Margaery content in her new found position. After followed the parents of the couple and finally Sansa, accompanied by Tyrion who was still scowling, complaining about the ceremony being too long and boring. Sansa found it surprisingly beautiful.

The sun was shining brighter than expected and the reflection off of the soldier’s armor was blinding. She stopped to admire the common folk who found enough coin to purchase flags with the sigil of King Joffrey, a Baratheon stag meeting a Lannister lion, and were waving them wildly about. Even a few carrying the Tyrell rose could be found among the throng.

Sansa found a quiet spot at the foot of Baelor the Blessed and stood, watching the guests of the Iron Throne make their way to their litters and head back to the Red Keep to start the wedding festivities. Behind her, tucked into a dark corner of the numerous doors leading into the Sept stood Sandor Clegane peering at her. He tugged his robes and cowl further over his face instinctively, muttering the first silent prayer in his life to the Warrior to make their getaway smooth and undetected tonight before slinking back down to his chambers. The girl could feel eyes boring into her back and looked behind her into the shadows, but he had already left.ss

Inside the dark and dampened hallways, Sandor silently cursed himself for going out exposed in front of the crowd, but the temptation of viewing the Stark girl one more time before they left was too much to bear. _Gods, she’s perfect,_ he sighed, leaning against the broken door that stood propped against its frame. He quickly threw the few belongings he owned into a sack and placed his sword on his bed. He had left his armor behind in the Red Keep, thrown into his room to save on space and detection. He would need to buy more or steal it. _Maybe they left mine alone in my chamber and I can just go grab it._ The thought was enticing, though it almost ensured he would be discovered. But if he hoped to get far with the Stark girl, there was no doubt that they would face trouble eventually and he would need good armor if he ever hoped to protect her. He resigned himself to spending the rest of the evening dozing on the bed for what might be the last peaceful sleep he’d have in a long time.

The ride back to the Red Keep took twice as long as they made their way through the throngs of people that lined the roads cheering for their new Queen. _Those once could have been for me_ , she thought pensively, bringing her knees to her chest and curling up inside the palanquin. She wasn’t sad to lose the title of Queen or Joffrey’s wife, but it hurt a little to lose the admiration of so many people who would’ve loved her in Joffrey’s stead. Perhaps one day the people of the North would love her just the same as the people of the South loved Lad- Queen Margaery.

Her gown was changed with ease as she slipped into her purple velvet lined gown, the last remaining gift she held from her lady mother. She sat straight-backed in her chair as Shae and another maid pulled her flowing hair back into an elegant plait and delicately placed the hairnet around it. When the unnamed maid accidentally pulled her hair, Sansa slapped her hand out of frustration and nerves. The girl whimpered and Sansa felt horrible, but this would not be the first nor last time the girl would be hurt in response to her carelessness. She stared at herself in the mirror, turning her head this way and that to catch the glint and glimmer of the amethysts in her radiant red hair. It was beautiful and extravagant, more than she warranted. But she would wear it with pride and relish in the stares she would receive in her last night in King’s Landing.

She spent the few hours before the festivities pacing her small chamber, her gut fluttering wildly as she fretted about tonight. _What if we’re caught? What will Joffrey do to us? Will he kill me or maim me?_ She could answer none of these questions but continued to pace, wearing out the soles of her silk slippers. Her riding boots were stowed away in her trunk for when she returned. Nothing would scream “runaway” quite like wearing worn out riding boots to a royal feast. Shae could hardly console her lady. The woman knew nothing of Sansa’s plans but could sense that something was amiss but she dared not ask questions. The less she knew the better, for she would not have to feign ignorance if she was questioned. When the sun was finally making its descent in the sky, it was time for Sansa to head down to the Throne Room and pretend to be happy for the newly wedded King and Queen of Westeros.

The Iron Throne was the first anyone saw when walking into the room. It was draped in ribbons of the House colors belonging to both the Tyrells and to Joffrey’s Houses Baratheon and Lannister, a mishmash of shades. The Throne Room was lined with banners of Joffrey’s sigil and below the stained glass windows stood lines of servants with finger foods and drink: Dornish and Arbor wines, spiced cider with orange peels, platters lined with numerous types of cheeses, and of course lemon cakes. But the nerves of her upcoming escape had her stomach in knots and she felt nauseous.

At the ring of a bell, all guests were seated around the large tables that lined the hall, Sansa being placed far to the right of the couple beside Tyrion who downed a cup of wine before the entrance of the royal couple. A withered hand startled Sansa as Lady Olenna came up behind her and gave her a sweet peck on the cheek.

“You do look quite exquisite, child,” she purred, her hands flitting to the amethyst hairnet. “The wind has been at your hair, though,” she exclaimed as the old woman fiddled with Sansa’s hair, tucking stray ends back into the accessory. Lady Olenna chuckled and moved down the rows of seats, exchanging pleasantries before claiming her spot to the left of her granddaughter’s seat. Sansa watched her a while before indulging in some wine to calm her nerves.

The doors at the far end of the hall burst open, revealing two white chargers with the King and Queen perched on their backs striding towards the dais where those closest to the royal family sat. King Joffrey honored his Baratheon side by wearing a golden doublet with black sleeves and crimson pants slashed with black velvet, the gold threading catching the firelight from the sconces on the walls. Margaery had changed from her wedding gown to a gown of pale green that was quite revealing, baring her pale shoulders and the tops of her breasts. Even from a distance Sansa could see her chest rise and fall with each breath. But a new detail was added in the golden crown that sat on Margaery’s brown, a thin gold ring that shone through her brown curls. A vision of beauty that Sansa could never hope to have been as Queen.

The feast was a seventy-seven course meal, more food than Sansa would ever have again in her life. She regretted not having the ability to sneak food out of the hall for her long journey. Instead she focused on the entertainment for the evening, a night filled with bawdy singers, dancing bears, Pentoshi tumblers, and fools on stilts. Sansa would take a bite of food from each dish set in front of her, trying to hold the food in her stomach. Lord Tyrion notices and gave her a concerned look.

“Sansa, is aught amiss?" He asked, quickly patting her hand. She had barely touched her food and had been lost in thought of how the evening would go after she had finally fled the city. She nodded and excused her behavior, blaming it on her attention to the fool who was stumbling around on stilts chasing a fat serving boy.

Past the middle of the courses, Joffrey called for his jousters to enter. Sansa looked around worriedly, knowing there was no space for jousting. However, two dwarves atop a dog and pig. She could sense Tyrion stiffening next to her at the insult, but the hall erupted into laughter, Joffrey’s being the loudest of them all.

When the dwarves had jousted and a champion was found among them, Joffrey stood on the table, staring straight at his Uncle, crying for him to join them to see who would be the true champion. Tyrion bristled and stood on the table to combat his nephew, yelling back that if he had to joust, so did Joffrey. The boy king did not understand the mockery, and when he asked why, Tyrion replied, “Because you are the only person I could defeat!”

The insult was not taken lightly. Both stood down from the table and regained their seats, but the peace was held for a brief moment. Joffrey stumbled his way down the table with the large seven-sided wedding chalice in his hands and dumped its contents all over his uncle. Sansa sat in shock, her jaw hanging agape. Queen Margaery rushed to her husband’s side and gently ushered him back to his seat, feigning a toast to be given or a song to be heard. She was more fit to be his wife than any lady in the realm.

By the time the sun had finally sunken behind the hills and darkness enveloped the Red Keep, the pigeon pie was brought out, with hushed whispers and excited giggles echoing in the hall. The King and Queen slowly made their way to the center of the room where the pie had been wheeled, its diameter taking up the space between both rows of tables. Joffrey called for Ser Ilyn’s sword to be used to cut the pie’s crust open to release the live doves baked inside. But when the executioner made unsheathed the six-foot blade from his back, the smokey steel caught Sansa’s eyes.

“What blade is that?” She whispered to no one in particular, but Lord Tyrion heard her and he winced, knowing the pain the answer would bring. The hilt was encrusted with dragonglass and rubies, looking more decorative than practical. But the grey color of the blade gave Sansa her answer.

“What have they done to my father’s sword?” She hissed, her eyes never leaving her father’s Valyrian greatsword, Ice. When she was far younger the blade intrigued her, not knowing the significance of Valyrian steel. But after years of seeing the blade that never left her father’s side, it was unmistakable that it was indeed Ice. No executioner would possess a blade so fine as that. Her fists tightened in her lap at the mockery of her family sword.

Joffrey returned to insult his uncle after the pie cutting, grabbing handfuls of Tyrion’s own slice of pigeon pie and stuffing them into his mouth, talking as he chewed and taking sips of wine in between bites. After the second bite he began coughing, first slowly but by his seventh sip of wine it only got worse until the coughs stopped and only a wheezing could be heard.

Sansa quickly stood, her chair toppling behind her. Joffrey was red in the face and choking, his clammy hands clawing at his throat, leaving bloody trails exposing the muscle taut in his neck. Cersei was cradling her son, screaming for a Maester while Margaery was in hysterics crying next to her new husband. Sansa paled. _How am I going to get out of here without someone spotting me and blaming me for his death?_ She started to panic, her lungs not filling with air and she feared she was choking as well. But the chaos that ensued with people rushing from the room and servants running in to aid their king provided the perfect cover and she regained her breath. She ducked out of the room and ran as fast as her legs could carry her to her chamber. As she left the Throne Room, Cersei’s anguished scream could be heard echoing down every chamber and into every room in the Red Keep. Sansa ran faster, reaching her room and barring the door behind her. Shae was already inside, pulling her sack from the trundle at the foot of her bed.

“You must get going. Now!” She hissed, shoving the pack at the girl.

“But how-how do you know?” Sansa stumbled over her words, the image of Joffrey’s bloody fingernails at his throat in the forefront of her mind.

“Nevermind that. Put your boots on. I’ll get you out of here.” Sansa did as she was instructed, deftly sliding out of her slippers and pulling on the sturdy leather boots she wore from Winterfell to Kings Landing a year ago. She threw the pack over her shoulder and grabbed the fur lined cloak from her wardrobe before following the Lorathi woman out of the chamber and down the far staircase leading out to the middle bailey. Across the way were the kennels which connected to the stables.

Behind her, Shae gave the girl a shove before turning back. “But what about you?” Sansa cried. Should anyone see Shae helping her, her head would be on a spike by morning.

“I’ll be fine. Now go, my lady. You mustn’t keep him waiting.” She winked and faded into the dark night back into the tower while Sansa ran alongside the walls toward the stables.

Sandor kept his cowl pulled tightly across his face and his hood nearly covered his eyes. His right hand was tucked into the left sleeve where a small dagger sat as he clutched the handle. His longsword was strapped to his back under the robes, away from prying eyes, his sack tied to his back above the robes to disguise any suspicious lumps. Should anyone stop him, it was his “vow” to remain silent and he would make sure they took the same vow as well should they try and stop him. When he reached the walls of the Red Keep, there were double the amount of guards and they were on edge. _Shit, what the fuck happened?_ He thought, scanning the wall for an alternate form of entrance. While he stood in contemplation, a young guard, a greenboy by the looks of him, came running up to Sandor.

“You’re a Silent Brother, aren’t you? Perhaps you can help the King. Please brother, he’s just inside. You must hurry!” The boy cried, nearly pulling Sandor past the gates and into the courtyard. Sandor looked questioningly at the guard and the pair who stood by the gate, but none seemed to recognize him. On the contrary, they seemed to think he was there for the king. Something had gone wrong. _I hope that little shit finally got what he deserved._ Sandor chuckled at his own dark thoughts before rushing in the direction of the Throne Room, turning abruptly the opposite way once he was out of view of the guard tower.

Eventually the darkness overtook him and he was able to feel his way around until he could hear the dogs whining in their kennels and the horses stamping their feet. _Something’s wrong._ Rushing towards the stables he found Sansa huddled in the stall of a chestnut mare who was silently grazing on the hay next to her feet. In the next stall Stranger was stamping his hooves and snorting.

“You tried to touch him, didn’t you?” Sandor rasped, startling the girl. She quickly stood, brushing hay off of her dress. She said nothing in response but ran to him and threw her arms around his hulking figure.

“Joffrey’s dead. We have to leave.” She whimpered. They didn’t exchange another word as he quickly saddled the warhorse who seemed much calmer at seeing his master. The warrior was sweet with the horse, a gentility that Sansa had never seen him exhibit save for the comfort of her own chambers when he would care for her. Once saddled, he grabbed both their sacks and tucked them into the saddle bags, lifting her onto the horse before throwing himself on behind her. The feel of him pressed behind her made her blush. His heat radiated off of him like fire and his thighs pressed themselves against hers. It was most inappropriate but she could think on that later.

“We’ll grab provisions on the way out. I know a place.” He whispered in her ear. _I had hoped to grab my armor before leaving,_ he thought solemnly. This would mean more coin spent just to fit him with rudimentary armor when the coin could go towards food and shelter and maybe a passage to Essos.

The warhorse was sure in its path and barreled its way towards the gate Sandor had entered in, the greenboy stupidly facing outwards toward the city, never hearing the horse until they were upon him. Stranger’s hooves made short work of the boy’s back, the other guards absent from their post. _Seems that the boy king is finally dead_.

Stranger rode fast and true through the city as they made their way towards the south, towards the Kingswood. However, the guards lacking in the Red Keep found themselves a new home at the gates of Kings Landing, barring anyone from leaving the city as they searched for the King’s killer. Sandor tightened his grip on the reins, rearing the horse to speed past those waiting to leave and over the guards. Swords and spears barely had time to be drawn as the pair raced past the gates, the sound of arrows raining down around them but the darkness quickly hid their path.

The ride was long and hard, never stopping until after many hours and the rays of the first sun shone on Sansa’s face did they see the line of trees ahead of them.

“We’re hiding in the Kingswood? This will be the first place they look for us!” Sansa panicked. Sandor placed a hand on her shoulder to calm her.

“Easy, girl. We’re not staying here, merely using it for protection. We’re heading further south than this. Rainwood is where we’re heading.”

“Rainwood?”

“Aye. Davos Seaworth was granted those lands by Stannis and both are in Dragonstone. Safter place for us until we can find a ship.”

“Where is this ship taking us? Eastwatch-by-the-sea?” She questioned, fearing the long journey on the choppy ocean. Her stomach could barely handle the thought.

“No, little bird. I’m taking you to the Free Cities. Only place where I can keep you safe.” The softness in his voice was comforting and she sighed, leaning against his chest. It was a long ride ahead of them.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Chapters will be posted roughly once every week on weekends. And if you'd like to know about updates for this fanfiction and any others I may write in the future, follow me on Twitter @serpensortiia.


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